


Knowledge in Action

by rei_c



Series: Knowledge 'Verse [12]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), NCIS: New Orleans, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Death, Depression, Hurricane Katrina, Incest, M/M, Magic, Rituals, Voodoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2020-09-03 21:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 99,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20274325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: Sam and Dean are in the northeast when they get word of a hurricane heading for New Orleans. They head down to their city, intent on protecting it from destruction, only to find that they may not be enough -- and they may have more to worry about than a natural disaster. What happens when the rains come and the storm hits has the power to change everything.





	1. Wednesday, August 24, 2005

"We have a problem," Sam says, closing his phone with an audible click. Dean turns, raises an eyebrow at his brother. "That was one of the vodouisantes in Haiti. Simbe tasted the wind coming off Tropical Storm Katrina."

Sam stops there, so Dean steps away from the motel bed, the guns he's cleaning, the research on some kind of poltergeist three towns away. He listens for Ogou but gets nothing, just the strange feeling of careful watching the loa's had for the past week, so he asks, "And?"

Sam looks troubled. "We'll wait until it hits Florida but the loa are saying it's heading for New Orleans." Dean feels his heart skip a beat. Ogou circles uneasily in the back of his mind. "Dean, if it gets anywhere close, we have to be there. We _have_ to go."

"Yeah," Dean says, mind running on autopilot now. The storm's heading for south Florida, at least according to the predictions, and Miami-Dade's already talking about evacuations but that's as far as everyone's gotten. No one's saying anything about New Orleans yet. Bad news but good, in a sense: Sam and Dean will have time to get down there before the storm turns and the city suggests evacuating.

It doesn't even occur to Dean to doubt Simbe; the loa's never been wrong about hurricanes before.

He should be moving, should be packing up already, but he's been caught off-guard. Shock, he thinks, and shakes his head. It'll take Dean a steady twenty hours of fast driving to get to New Orleans and they'll need as much extra time as possible to get things ready for their people down there. "You know who's gonna stay and who's leaving?"

"We'll have to make a decision in the next few hours," Sam replies, chewing on one fingernail, rubbing his forehead with the other hand. "The loa are keeping it quiet for now but it's taking too much energy to keep them settled down and I."

He stops there, but Dean finally gets why Sam's been so distracted the past couple days, why Ogou hasn't said much and sounds snappy when he _has_ felt like talking. Dean wrinkles his nose, scans their clothes and weapons spread out all over the room. "Everyone over the age of forty or under the age of fourteen, everyone in bad health, everyone who has family they can go to. Rada, too, I'd say, except the ones that can help themselves. We might consider asking some of the black magic Petro horses from other places to come down; Bondye knows they'll be able to help if we can convince them to behave. I'll call Dad, tell him about the poltergeist. We have to get on the road."

Ogou's muttering something else, something about sisters and cousins that has Dean gritting his teeth and telling the loa to shut the fuck up _now_. Sam's still deep in thought, lets Dean push him around and fret, pack their things up.

\--

They stop a couple hours down the road for food, having left in too much of a hurry to grab some snacks at any number of gas stations and convenience stores between their motel and the highway. Sam goes inside a sub shop and Dean sits in the Impala, the car's rumble comforting. He'll have to find someplace safe to leave it when the storm hits.

Dean calls John as he watches Sam stand at the counter and point; he turns down the radio, ignores discussion about the weather down south and floods in Europe.

"You boys are insane," John says, once Dean's told him what they're doing and why. Dean can't argue and so he doesn't. "You know what you're getting yourselves into?"

"Yes, sir," Dean instantly replies. "This is something we have to do, Dad. We'll be all right but other people might not be without our help."

John pauses; Dean can hear him breathing. "You're _sure_ it's going to hit New Orleans?" he asks. "Nobody's saying anything about that. Weather guys say even if it turns, it'll be Pensacola at the most. There're a lot of miles between Pensacola and New Orleans."

Dean takes a deep breath, lets it out. He wants Simbe to be wrong. "Better to be safe than sorry," Dean finally says, trying to make a joke of it. The joke obviously falls flat; John doesn't laugh and Dean doesn't feel any better for having said it.

"You want me to come?" John asks, so quietly that Dean almost doesn't hear his father. When the words register, he can't believe John's offered. To know that John would put himself in such danger for his sons, that isn't surprising; Dean knows his father would give his life for him or Sam, wouldn't hesitate about doing it, either. It's the fact that John's offering to come down to New Orleans with his vodouisante sons, to work with other vodouisantes.

"That's," he starts to say, has to stop. "Dad." He tries for levity, adds, "I thought you didn't want to know anything about it?"

John snorts. Dean can imagine his father rubbing his forehead, looking down at the ground or floor or steering wheel the way he always does when he's about to say something emotional. "I think it's too late for that," John says, "no matter how hard I try. And I'd rather know that you're." He stops.

Dean takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "Dad. Thank you. But we'll be fine. And you have a hunt to finish."

"Screw the hunt," John says, straight to the point. "If, at any time, you. If you're _not_ fine, Dean. If anything changes, if anything happens, Dean, you call me. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Dean answers. "We will."

John sighs, says, "Keep an eye on your brother," before he hangs up.

Dean glances up, sees Sam, tension evident in every line of his body. After Sam pays, has taken the plastic bag from the girl at the register, he turns toward the door. For one second, Dean can see the fear written all over Sam's face, nightmares about the past and visions of a horrific future. Then Sam looks up, wipes his face clean of emotion, and pushes open the store's door.

\--

An hour of Metallica later, Sam takes out his phone, starts furiously scrolling through his contact info. Dean glances over, turns back to the road. "What are you doing?" he asks. Sam moving that fast after acting so vacant today can't be good.

"Actually," Sam says, "I've just remembered something." He stops there, turns down the music and hits a button on his phone, puts the phone to his ear. Dean rolls his eyes and eavesdrops as Sam says, "Lily-May, hi, it's Sam Winchester. Yeah, we've heard. We're heading down -- really? Yes, well, I -- oh, sure. Yeah, no, that'd be great. Thanks. And hey, listen, if you could call Emilie and tell her we could use her help, I'd -- sure. Thanks again. We'll try to keep everyone under control. Yeah, you too."

Dean waits for five miles once Sam's hung up before he risks a quick look at his brother and sighs. "You're going to make me ask, aren't you. Fine. Sam. What the hell was that all about?"

Sam licks his lips, stares out of the window. "Lily-May is the Rada _konfians kay_ for the Baltimore vodouisantes. One of our people works for NOAA."

"The National Weather Service," Dean says, almost immediately. He feels a flush of heat travel through his body; Ogou coils in the back of his head and murmurs something about relying on other people too much being dangerous. Dean shushes the loa, says to Sam, "She's going to forward all their releases to us? Awesome."

"Just wish we had someone in the New Orleans office," Sam mutters, looking down at his phone, twirling it around and around, a nervous fidget if Dean's ever seen one. "Or, better yet, someone in a place where it might make a difference."

Dean reaches over with one hand, squeezes Sam's thigh. "Hey," he says. His voice is as gentle as he can make it without sounding like an idiot, a line Dean's learned to straddle for Sam's benefit. "It'll be okay."

Sam murmurs something. Dean doesn't hear what, asks Sam to repeat himself. "Dennis," Sam says. "If Dennis was."

"Fuck her," Dean says, cutting Sam off. He's gone so fast from gentle to hard, furious, that Sam looks finally looks at him. "We'll deal, Sam. We don't need a backstabbing bitch like her, not now, not ever. We'll be _fine_." 

Sam doesn't look as if he believes Dean. Dean can't really blame his brother. Ogou's anxious, worried, and he isn't even a loa of foresight. This has the potential to be very, very bad. Dean's keeping his fingers crossed they're all over-reacting. If Simbe's wrong once in Dean's entire lifetime, he hopes this is that time.

\--

Dean drives as long as he can but has to admit defeat once they've passed through Ohio into Kentucky. He pulls off at a truck stop, opens the door into a wave of heat and starts pumping gas. Sam gets out of the car, stretches. Dean can see a thin strip of skin between the waistband of Sam's underwear and the bottom of his shirt, throat drying at the sight.

"Dude, I'm gonna need sleep," Dean says. Even his voice sounds tired, rough and gravelly.

"I'll drive," Sam says, turning and looking south. His eyes are deep, thundering waves of loa, another and another and another, crashing and twisting and churning. "We have to get there. As soon as possible."

Dean studies his brother, takes in the stains where blood has leaked through Sam's shirt and dried in the cloth, glances over the cant of Sam's shoulders, finally meets his brother's eyes. "You need to sleep, too," he says, a token argument. "You won't get any once we make it there."

Sam's smile is so forced it looks painful. "I'm not gonna be able to sleep any time soon," he says, looking away as soon as the words have dropped from his mouth. "I might as well drive."

The pump clicks off and Dean replaces it, shrugs. "Okay," he says. "But I have to piss first."

Sam nods, slides around the car and gets behind the driver's seat, leans back. Dean stares at his brother, shakes his head and goes inside.

\--

He's on his way back out, waiting in line to pay for M&Ms and a couple bottles of water, when the old guy behind him nods once, eyes flicking out to the car.

"She's a real beaut," the guy says. Dean grins, pleased his car's getting some very deserved appreciation. "Where're y'all takin' her?"

"M'brother and me, we're just on a road trip," Dean replies, stepping forward as the line moves.

The guy nods again, has a look in his eyes that makes Dean think the old man's done much the same before, has seen the parts of the country that only itinerant wanderers do, migrant farmers and circus folk and truck drivers.

"Be careful if you're headin' south," the guy says, even as it's Dean's turn to pay. "Hurricane goin' through Florida right now. Heard it's gonna move back up and hit the panhandle."

Dean's smile is a little less bright. "We're heading for Louisiana," he says. Dean pays, moves to leave, and the guy tells him, again, to watch out.

"Shame to put that car in any danger," the man adds. "Maybe you and your brother should go a little farther west."

Dean leaves, lets the glass door slam behind him. Sam gives him a look when he gets into the car, dumps the candy and water on the floor and puts the seat back.

"Drive," Dean says. "And don't stop."

Sam's making good time on decent enough blacktop when Dean closes his eyes and lets the rhythm of the road lull him to sleep.


	2. Thursday, August 25, 2005 - Part One

Dean wakes up just past midnight, shocked out of a sound sleep by something just under audible range. It felt more like it came from inside of his body than outside; he puts a hand over his chest, feels as the rhythm of his heartbeat slowly starts to settle back down. Dean glances over at his brother and sees that Sam's focused on the road even as his knuckles are white around the steering wheel.

"The fuck was that?" Dean asks. He rubs at his eyes, wipes his forehead and finds sweat. "Dude."

Sam's head moves just enough so that his eyes can flick to Dean, take in Dean's pale, startled face. "Loa are coming," Sam says, turning his eyes back to the road.

Dean frowns, sits up a little and reaches for one of the bottles of Gatorade rocking back and forth under his feet. He grabs one at random, opens it and takes a sip, wincing at the taste; warm grape is definitely not his favourite. As he swallows, Dean rifles through Mathieu's _konesan_, comes up blank. "What the hell does that mean?" Dean asks. "The loa are coming? Coming where?"

Sam takes a long moment to answer. "To protect their people." Dean watches his brother swallow, long line of Sam's throat working in the here-and-gone light of an interstate at night.

"I'm pretty sure they've done that before," Dean says, pushing, "but I've never felt _that_. Sam. Level with me here, okay?"

"Something like this," Sam finally says. "Something like this, we take down the territory lines and the boundary wards."

Sam doesn't look as if he's going to say anymore so Dean pokes at Ogou, asks the loa what _that_'s supposed to mean.

"_Means all the fences we put up to keep loa in their place, all the power we raise in each of our cities,_" Ogou mutters, "_be coming down. Loa free to roam and they all hightailin' it down to Orleans. Gonna be busy when you get there, _cheval."

Dean thinks back to San Francisco, watching Sam draw over himself with a red Sharpie, remembers the discussion he had with Penny about places of power. Like a sharp crack to the head, Dean inhales and says, "The boundary wards. Don't tell me you're taking down the ones around Marinette."

Ogou snorts and Sam glances at his brother. "She isn't caught up in boundary wards," Sam replies.

"_Take more than dismantlin' territories to let Danny's sister out o' where the _poto mitan_ put her_," Ogou adds.

Dean breathes, rubs his forehead, tries not to think about what kind of power it takes to level all the wards and fences, not to mention the jolt needed to wake him up out of a sound sleep. He glances at Sam, doesn't see blood seeping through any of Sam's clothes, doesn't think Sam looks any more tired or stressed out than he had before Dean's nap. He could ask and Sam would probably tell him something.

The bottle of Gatorade, now empty, gets thrown in the backseat. Dean keeps his mouth shut.

\--

They trade off driving when they hit the Mississippi state line, stop at the welcome rest area to piss and wash their faces. Sam's eyes are bloodshot, hazard of not sleeping for close to twenty-four hours, but he still looks ridiculously, scarily awake.

He looks less awake when Dean finally pulls into the usual lot off Rampart around seven in the morning, the Quarter quiet even as the rest of the city's waking up. Dean looks around as they walk toward Dauphine, can feel a change in the atmosphere. The air is heavier than normal and Dean isn't sure if that's atmospheric pressure, the sense of an entire city holding its breath, or the loa swarming to the city. No one thinks Katrina's coming for New Orleans, not yet, but if the vodouisantes have heard, Dean's sure word's gotten around, crept underneath the conscious actions of the city to the animal instinct down below.

The _badjikan_ has the door open, is waiting on the threshold for them. "Everything you said to be doing is getting done," he tells Sam, doesn't even bother with greeting them. There's no time for pleasantries. "What else you come up with?"

Dean looks at Sam out of the corner of his eyes, wonders if Sam was communicating through Erzulie or if Dean slept so heavily he just didn't hear Sam talking on the phone. More troubling, he doesn't know what Sam told the _badjikan_ to start doing. He opens his mouth, closes it again, looks thoughtfully from his brother to the _badjikan_.

"Make sure someone's going to pick everyone up from the airport," Sam says, entering the house once the _badjikan_'s moved aside. "Rent some vans and buses if there any available to shuttle the Rada out of the city. Other than that, nothing. Dean and I are going to sleep for a couple hours. I'd appreciate it if we aren't disturbed."

"_Poto mitan_," the _badjikan_ says, hesitant. Sam stops, turns his head just enough to signal that he's paying attention. "You know what 'Zulie Freda's saying. They all saying it. You gonna think about it?"

Sam doesn't answer. He leaves; Dean can hear him walking down the hallway and up the stairs, a curious blend of Danny's glide and Ti-Jean's limp weighing down Sam's own footsteps. Sam only walks like that when he's stressed, tired. It's usually the first sign. The fact that it's coming now, when they still have fuck knows how many hours until the storm hits? Not good.

The _badjikan_ turns to Dean, asks, "_You_ gonna think about it?"

Ogou coils, tight and radiating with fury. "_Nothin' to think about_."

Dean shrugs. He has no idea what they're talking about, doesn't much care when Sam's out of his sight. "Whatever Sam decides."

"No idea you be taking this so calm," the _badjikan_ says, head tilted and watchful eyes pinned on Dean. "Thought you be throwing a hissy fit."

Dean scowls, bares his teeth. He doesn't grace the _badjikan_ with an answer, just leaves, going after his brother.

\--

Sam's already in bed when Dean gets up to their room. Sam's facing the window, curled into a half-fetal position with the sheets over his legs and pooled around his stomach. He looks naked underneath the white cotton; Dean's eyes trace the tattoos he can see while the rest of him is trying not to think of kicking those sheets off, wrestling Sam onto his back, kneeling between Sam's legs.

Dean makes a noise low in his throat and Sam hunches up smaller, knees drawing up closer to his stomach, neck bending even more. Dean feels like he's just been punched, seeing that. He kicks off his shoes, pulls off his shirts and jeans but leaves his underwear on, slides onto the bed next to Sam and wraps an arm around Sam, pulls him closer.

"Dude," he says, soft, nuzzling at the skin behind Sam's ear. "Get some sleep."

There's no response from Sam right away, but just as Dean's starting to get a little upset about that, Sam goes limp in his arms, squirms backwards enough to press their bodies tight against one another. One hand goes up to cover Dean's, pull Dean's arm tighter over Sam's body.

"This isn't good," Sam whispers. "There's." He stops himself, tangles his feet up with Dean's. "Don't go, okay?"

"You and me," Dean says, as close to a promise as he can make.

The air is hot and heavy with water when Sam rolls over, presses his lips against Dean's, hands moving to cradle Dean's face. Sam is naked and Dean's fingers slide on sweat when his palms move to rest on Sam's hips.

"We should sleep," Dean murmurs, hissing as Sam nips Dean's jaw. "You drove all night."

"Can't," Sam replies, just as quietly. Dean searches his brother's eyes, finds a trace of Petro madness simmering underneath the waves of loa, a hint of Ge-Rouge crashing around the edges of everything Sam is trying to hide, to push back. "Every time I close my eyes, I -- Dean, I."

Dean raises his head enough to cut Sam off with lips and teeth and tongue, then flips them so that Dean's on top, can move enough to take off his boxer-briefs and let their dicks slide against one another. Sam lets out a sharp breath and throws his head back; Dean leans down, bites Sam's neck until a ring of hickeys breaks the smooth skin.

Sam takes them both in hand and strokes until their come mingles on their bodies, Dean's claim of possession all over Sam and the sheets bunched up at their feet as Dean falls asleep.

\--

The house is quiet when Dean wakes up. He checks a clock and figures he's gotten enough sleep for now; it's early afternoon and Sam's not in bed. Before Dean has time to panic, the front door slams and footsteps are thumping their way up the stairs, hard, sharp, potentially furious. Dean sits up just as the door to the bedroom opens and he sees Sam standing there, dressed in yesterday's clothes, circles under his eyes even darker than they had been this morning.

"Everything okay?" Dean asks mildly, waiting to see where Sam's temper is at. Sam sounded upset, judging by the way he was stomping, but standing here, he just looks tired.

"I have some news you aren't going to like," Sam says, crosses the room to perch on the edge of the bed.

Dean scoots closer, not quite touching but close enough to feel, the air between them thick with humidity and crackling with tension. Dean shrugs, says, "Just tell me, then. No sense in drawing it out longer."

He can see Sam ready himself, shoulders pulled in tight, but isn't at all prepared for his brother to say, "I have to go to Plaquemines." Dean feels his blood turn to ice. "Down to the _memeres_. With a storm coming, as bad as they say it's going to be, I need to renew the anchors. If they get torn up." He stops there.

Dean swallows, wants to lean forward and touch his brother but can't bring himself to move. "If they get torn up?" he asks. "What happens?"

Sam looks away. Lines of wariness are bleeding through his face, shoulders, arms. "Nothing good. Once they're renewed, nothing short of a direct hit should affect them."

"_Should_," Dean echoes. Sam nods. "Well, fuck." Dean stands up, unconcerned with his own nakedness, slams the door shut with more force than is strictly necessary. He's got a vodouisante's sense of self-preservation as well as a hunter's; he wants nothing more than to stay away from the southern parishes for the rest of his life. If Sam needs to go, though, Dean won't let him go by himself. "Fine. When are we leaving and how quick can we make this trip?"

"You don't have," Sam starts to say.

Dean shakes his head, the action alone cutting Sam off. "No, Sam. If you're going, I'm going, simple as that. I might not like them, Ogou might not like them, but we're going with you."

Sam smiles but the expression looks foreign, somehow, distant and far-off in a way Dean doesn't ever see. Sam does distant, sure, but not like this. This isn't a distance that comes from closing off or being the only one able to remember something from the past. This is a distance that speaks of seeing a completely different reality, the distance of a drug addict or a psychopath or, Dean suddenly thinks, a man ridden by dozens of loa.

"Not many people like them," Sam says.

"You do," Dean replies. He blinks; in the next instant, when his eyelids open, Sam's back to normal, eyes teeming with loa, grin wry, cynical. Dean's man enough to admit he feels better.

"_You 'n me both,_ cheval," Ogou mutters.

\--

The _badjikan_ shows them out with pursed lips and serious eyes, doesn't say anything. Dean wonders what he missed while he was asleep and asks once they're in the car and heading for the Crescent City Connection to cross the river.

Sam shrugs, pointedly looks out of the window and says, "Phone calls, mostly, and a few house visits. Trying to get a bunch of Rada horses out of the city isn't something that handles itself."

Dean feels stung. "If you'd woken me up, I would've helped," he says. He tries not to sound upset, pushed aside, but knows by the way Sam turns to him that he's failed.

"Trying to get a bunch of Rada horses out of the city is difficult enough," Sam says, smile playing at the corners of his lips, "without getting one of Ogou's involved."

A glimpse of Sam's smile goes a long way to reassuring Dean but so does the mental image. Yeah, okay, he probably would have made all those conversations a lot worse. He reaches over, places one hand on Sam's thigh, and breathes as they take the exit to 23. "They couldn't've liked dealing with one of Karrefour's," Dean says mildly. Sam snorts, shakes his head. "If they gave you trouble," Dean says, "then I'll be more than happy to go back and remind them why that's a bad idea."

"Aw," Sam says. The smile is wide and bright now, even if there's still a shadow lurking in his eyes. Dean flushes and Sam laughs, a quick, crisp noise. "Let's just say that they're getting out of town and leave it at that, fair?"

"Yeah," Dean replies, a little too quickly. "Sure. Let's do that."

The Impala rumbles even as Dean and Sam stop talking, Dean intent on getting down to Belle Chasse, Sam turning to look back out of the window.

It's not until they're approaching the turn-off for the ferry across the Mississippi that Sam says anything. When he does, his quiet "We'll go through Davant" almost has Dean shuddering.

"Why can't we stay on this side of the river?" Dean asks.

Sam's fingers dig into Dean's hand, still resting high up on Sam's thigh. "I'll need to hold the workings away from you and I can only do that on the other side of the river." He pauses, then adds, carefully, repetitively, "We need to go through Davant."

Dean grits his teeth together, asks, _again_, "Why?"

"All those ghosts," Sam says. "I want to see if the bright people are staying. And Sebastien's meeting us in Pointe à la Hache, like last time. It's too late to call him now and change that."

"Can't we, I dunno, look at them from across the river?" Dean asks. The thought of going through Davant again, knowing what's there even if he isn't sure whether he'll be able to see it, isn't pleasant. Sam's smile, his only reply, isn't pleasant either. Dean sighs, gets in line for the ferry.

\--

Sam tries to convince Dean that he should be driving, especially when they'll have to stop and dump river mud on Dean's head again, but Dean argues back. When the Impala drives back onto solid ground, Dean's still behind the wheel. He's not an idiot, though; he pulls off to the side of the road the second his teeth start chattering, chills running down his spine and crawling up his arms.

Dean gets out of the car when Sam does, no mojo bag this time to help him breathe but they've stopped closer to the town, aren't pushing the hoodoo workings. He knows that Sam is going to step off the road and go down to the river, grab a handful of mud and then rub it into Dean's head, but knowing is one thing. Seeing Sam disappear as soon as his foot hits grass is something else entirely. A short, sharp shock hits his system, gone as soon as Sam's back.

The mud is cold on Dean's head, falling in clumps as Sam traces a symbol on Dean's forehead and then murmurs something in Kreyòl, something Ogou can't translate.

"_Part o' his _konesan_, mebbe,_" the loa says, twining anxiously in the back of Dean's skull. "_You sure you had to come? Ain't no way he won't be comin' back; could'a let 'im go with someone else or by hisself._"

"_Pussy,_" Dean murmurs back, sly and mocking. Ogou growls but calms down, getting the message loud and clear.

Sam's eyes, wide, worried, are waiting when Dean opens his. "Okay?" Sam asks. "Dean?"

Dean grimaces as a speckle of mud starts sliding down his right cheek. He reaches up, wipes it off with one finger, then smears the mud in a line across Sam's nose. "Better now," he says. "Can we keep moving?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "Of course."

Trying to ignore the glimmering lines of hoodoo power spreading out over everything he can see, Dean turns back to the Impala. He leaves the mud on his head, more worried about how long he'll be in Plaquemines than he is about getting the car dirty.

\--

This time, the hoodoo doesn't so much itch between his shoulder-blades as it does all over his body. He feels as if he's getting hives even though there's no change to his skin, no bumps or marks or rash. Dean almost wishes there was a physical sign of what he's feeling, something to look at and point to, to prove that he's not going crazy. This is only his second time in Plaquemines since becoming a horse; both times he's come down here, he's wondered about his sanity.

With Davant rapidly approaching, Dean figures he and Sam are either two of the dumbest or two of the craziest guys currently alive. Sam wants to see the ghosts but there isn't a reason why they can't drive right up to the town limit, stop the car, have a look, turn around, and take the ferry back across, go south on the other side of the river. No reason except an extra hour's driving, maybe more, and the impossible-to-argue-with knowledge that they're scared of a village, scared of ghosts. Their father would laugh.

"_Who being the pussy now,_ cheval?" Ogou asks, crowing. Dean mentally growls and physically scowls; Sam takes that as an invitation.

"Dean, you don't have to," is all Sam has time to say.

Cutting Sam off, Dean says, "If you're about to tell me _one more time_ that I don't have to come down here with you, then I _really_ think you should save your breath. I should be asking if _you_ are all right. This isn't taking too much out of you?"

Sam snorts. "Course not. It would take a lot more than this."

Dean's smile isn't welcoming, isn't nice or happy or any word remotely close. "Then shut up. We're two seconds away from Davant."

Sam's neck cracks, he turns his head so fast. Dean can see his brother clenching fists out of the corner of his eyes and, as much as he'd like to have both hands on the wheel, he reaches over, rests his palm over one of those fists. Sam's skin is cold and clammy; Dean opens his mouth to say something about it but sees the ghosts before he can think of any words.

The ghosts are -- there's no word for it. Brighter than he remembers and they're all facing north, facing Belle Chasse and the Impala. Dean swallows convulsively, squeezes Sam's hand.

"What are they doing?" he asks, low and quiet, like maybe the ghosts haven't seen them, like maybe there isn't anything there and Dean's imagining them. He _must_ be imagining them, the way they all stand there, one or two of them flickering out of sight in one moment and then back in the next, forming two straight lines on either side of the road.

"Getting ready to leave," Sam replies in a whisper. "They -- the bright people are leaving. We have to tell the _memeres_. First the loa, now the ghosts. Everyone except the civilians knows what's coming."

They see a man walking on the other side of the street, heading the same way they are. Dean would love nothing more than to slam on the gas and get the hell out of Davant but he slows down, rolls down his window and calls out, "'Scuse me!" Sam's next to him, asking him what the fuck he's doing.

The man stops, looks at them, raises his hand in a half-hearted wave, too hot and humid for anything more. "Help you?" he asks, mild. "You boys lost or summin'?"

"No sir," Dean answers. He opens his mouth, finally realises just why Sam was telling him to keep going. What's he supposed to say, 'Sorry, but there's a hurricane coming here even though everyone says Florida and, oh, by the way, all of the ghosts are leaving?' He remembers what Sam said before, that people connected to their kind of lifestyle, no matter how remotely, will feel the way Plaquemines hums and buzzes beneath an audible range. If this man lives here and can't feel it, it means he won't think Dean's advice is anything but the ramblings of an asylum escapee.

Sam leans over him, calls out, "Do you know anyone by the name of Lagarousse? They live down in Buras, the whole family. We're on our way to see the grandmamma."

That gets a smile from the man and he straightens up, spits on the ground before replying. "Tell 'Basti I got his message, will ya? We been hustling people outta town since we heard. I got a friend trying to wrangle up some school buses for the die-hards. We'll make sure they leave, no matter what the gov'ment do. Tell 'Mama Lagarousse that, if you heading down that way."

"Will do," Sam says, nodding before he settles back into his seat. When he's ready, seat-belt buckled again, Dean's window going up to keep in the air-conditioning, Sam mutters, "Move fast, don't they?"

Dean makes a face and drives on. The man, whatever his name is, whoever and whatever he is, lifts a hand that Dean keeps an eye on in his rear-view. 

\--

Sebastien's waiting for them in the same place he met them before; the man doesn't laugh, doesn't tease, doesn't even smile. Dean doesn't hesitate before leaving his weapons in the car, stepping onto the airboat with a brisk nod. Sam hands over earmuffs and a beer that tastes sour in Dean's mouth.

The ride down the river goes fast, Sebastien pulling up to the dock in Buras with a spray of water. Marguerite yells at her brother in French. Dean doesn't need to speak the language to understand what she's saying; her tone makes that very clear. Sebastien doesn't smile, though, just cocks up the corners of his lips as if even forcing a smile is impossible anymore.

Marguerite sees the expression, puts her hands on her hips as Sam and Dean step out of the boat and onto dry land. "This hurricane," she says. "_Ça cout la peau de cul_."

"Hopefully having a _poto mitan_ will help," Sam says. He glances at Dean, quick, then looks back at Marguerite. "Not to mention advance warning."

Sebastien mutters under his breath and Marguerite gives him the finger, rattles off something in French too quickly for Dean to make out individual words.

"Well, come on, _frangin_," Marguerite says, tilting her head at the golf cart. "An' you, _mato_. Y'all wantin' t'ask favours, best t'be on time."

Dean can't argue with that, much as he'd like to; going through Davant, seeing the ghosts lined up and ready to leave, that's bad enough, but the _memeres_ are on a whole different level. Even knowing what Dean does now about Sam and the anchorings, knowing that Sam's connected to this land and has a certain amount of influence as a result, doesn't help. He gives Marguerite a tight smile, nods at Sebastien, and takes off for the golf cart, hears as Sam follow him a moment later.

\--

Last time they were here, the _memeres_ had all four elements balanced outside. Dean surveys the porch, takes in the _drapo_ fluttering in a breeze Dean can't feel, the large terracotta urns, the baskets of the same red-orange flower as before. Something's missing, though, and he realises quickly: there aren't any water-lilies and the amount of earth represented, it's in a much larger proportion than anything else.

Standing on the walkway to the house, Dean murmurs, "What does that mean?"

Sam, standing next to him, glances over. There's something glinting bright and hot in Sam's gaze -- it has to be sunlight; Dean can't feel loa and he's never seen one manifest like that before. "It means they know enough water's coming to overwhelm the earth," he finally says. "So they're trying to call up power to hold the water back and keep the earth constant."

"Will it work?" Dean asks.

It's a long moment before Sam says, "I don't know."

Sam takes off, then, heads up the walk to the porch, climbs the steps, knocks on the door. Dean scrambles to follow, can hear the click-whirr of the fan from outside.

"_Entrez_," a voice calls out.

Sam opens the door, walks inside. Dean follows his brother, presses himself close to Sam as he eyes the circle on the floor and the way Sam's bowing his head and casting his eyes downward.

"_Memeres_," Sam murmurs. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice."

Dean eyes the seven women, jumps when the one in the middle says, "The thanks are ours, _poto mitan_. Your warning gave us a few extra hours we wouldn't otherwise have had. Tell us why you're here."

Sam takes a deep breath. "The loa are saying that it'll hit here, or close. I'd like permission to renew the anchors while there's time."

The woman in the middle studies Sam, finally says, "You may approach." Sam starts to move, of course, but Dean holds him back before Sam can step across the glowing white line. Turning to argue, Sam opens his mouth, but it's the _memere_ who speaks. "You may approach with him, _mato_ of the night crossroads."

Dean blinks, watches in suspicious disbelief as the glowing line dies down and disappears.

"_Be careful_," Ogou mutters, crowding to the front of Dean's eyes. "_I don't trust 'em_."

"_Don't worry. I don't either_," Dean replies in much the same tone.

The _memeres_ titter and Dean flushes, just _knows_ they could hear him and Ogou but doesn't know _how_. Still, when Sam steps forward, Dean follows, close at Sam's shoulder. Sam kneels, takes the _memere_'s outstretched hands and presses a kiss to her knuckles. She reaches out, rests her thumb on Sam's forehead, then looks up at Dean.

"_Mato_ of the night crossroads, Erzulie Dantor's _masisi_, Ogou's _cheval_," the _memere_ says, eyes bright but impenetrable. "A trinity in yourself, though of a different kind than our _poto mitan_ here."

Sam stiffens, looks up at the woman, and she clucks her tongue. Sam ducks his head again and Dean can see a flush on the back of his brother's neck. The edges of Sam's tattoos peeking out from under his shirt collar seem alive, swirling and writhing in the presence of these women, in the land of Sam's anchors and power-base. Dean gets chills.

The _memere_ looks back at Dean, studying him as the ancient fan in the corner keeps time. "Why are _you_ here, _mato_?"

"Because Sam is," Dean says. In his mind, it's as simple as that. Whether the _memeres_ believe him or not, that's the truth.

The women exchange glances, finally nod, and a different woman, one sitting on the edge of the room, asks, "What you know 'bout your _poto mitan_ and his roots here?"

Dean frowns, glances at each woman in turn before looking down at Sam. Sam's not looking at him, doesn't even appear to be breathing. Dean wonders what the hell's going on and how he's supposed to answer. He licks his lips, says, carefully, "I know the first _poto mitan_ had their base of power in Plaquemines and I know Sam does, too, because you untwisted some of his gift and planted it in this parish. I know Sam asked you to do something about the hoodoo around me last time I was here but you made him choose between me and the _loup-garou_. When he chose the wolf, I know he passed your test."

Three women sit forward at that last statement and Sam tenses. The woman in the center lets a smile curve on her lips and Dean feels his throat go dry. "I know you were upset about that," the _memere_ says. "But you let it go." She tilts her head, adds, "Ogou talked some sense into you. You've done better since then."

"Thanks," Dean says, unsteady. Each of those seven women are watching him like hawks, their collective gaze holding more heat than the air outside.

The woman in the middle nods, turns to look back at Sam. "You chose duty last time," she tells Sam. "And performed that duty well and with mercy. The _loup-garou_ you sent here has flourished and has chosen one of the Lagarousse family to mate with, as we had foreseen. You know what we have decided about your request, _poto mitan_. Rest in that knowledge and be on guard. Some things should not be known before they occur."

She leans forward, kisses Sam's forehead, then leans back.

Sam stands, bows again at all the women, and takes two steps backwards, Dean following suit, before saying, "Thank you."

"Go on, _poto mitan_," the _memere_ says. "You have work to do that can't be done standing around here."

With a nod, Sam leads Dean out of the house and down the porch steps. Dean makes sure the door's closed, doesn't want to feel the weight of those women's stares any longer than he has to. Marguerite stands up as she sees them but doesn't move, not when Sam pauses and looks at Dean.

"You did good," Sam murmurs, eyes sliding away from Dean's. "I. Thank you."

"What did they mean?" Dean asks, just as quietly. "Did you get permission?"

Sam's smile is quick and fleeting, like the breeze that comes out of nowhere, sudden and unexpected, with enough force to knock Dean nearly off his feet. Sam shivers and Dean doesn't know why until he realises that the breeze, it spread outwards from the _memeres_' house, swept out through the windows and is spreading around them unnaturally, judging by the way that trees and bushes flutter and then still.

"They're taking care of the renewal for me," Sam says. He doesn't say anything more right away but Dean doesn't push, can tell that Sam's trying to find the right way to explain things. "They still have the ability, because of the way they strung out my gift in the first place. They're going to put in an exemption for you, too. The workings. Not a welcome but a neutrality. You'll be able to enter Plaquemines now." There's a curious light of hesitation in Sam's expression as he adds, smiling, "No more river mud. That's a plus."

Dean's throat works but he doesn't say anything, not until he comes up with, "Why?"

Sam's smile turns hard, bitter. "Because I do my job."

He turns on a dime, heads for the golf cart and Marguerite. She eyes Sam, then Dean as Dean trails his brother, but doesn't say anything.

\--

Marguerite takes them back to Sebastien, exchanges a few words with Sam that are too quiet for Dean to hear before leaving. Sebastien drives the airboat at breakneck speeds along the curve of the Mississippi and gets them back to Pointe à la Hache in good time.

They have to wait for the ferry and it's 6:30 by the time they're approaching the tiny town of Gloria on the river's west bank. Sam hasn't said a word since they left Sebastien back in Pointe à la Hache but it isn't the silence of anger or tension; the quiet is actually comfortable, probably one of the last few chances to just _be_ before the madness of a hurricane hits.

Still, Dean's been keeping an eye on Sam, just in case, so he sees the instant Sam stiffens, head falling back. Sam's eyes are open and so is his mouth; Dean reaches over, touches his brother. A zing of electricity snaps at him and Dean flinches, pulling the car over to the side of the road.

"Sam?" he asks. "Sam, come on, talk to me."

Sam shudders, blinks furiously, and sits back up. "It's hit," he says. "It hit Florida. Turn on the radio."

Dean frowns but does as directed, turns the dial until he hits a station with breaking news. He listens, confused and more than a little scared, as the reporter tells them that Hurricane Katrina just hit Hallendale Beach. "All forecasts show the hurricane moving west, through the state," she goes on to say, "and back out to the Gulf. The projected second landfall is currently somewhere in the Florida panhandle. Florida residents between Pensacola and Panama City are warned to anticipate evacuations once the hurricane reaches the Gulf. The storm _is_ classified as minimal but could cause havoc due to flooding. Stay tuned to this radio station for updates as they come."

"How'd you know?" Dean asks, after he's turned the radio back off, has had the chance to sit there and take everything in. "You must've known the _second_ it hit, Sam."

"Agassou," Sam says.

Dean doesn't know what that means, not at first, but Ogou pauses, says, "_He had that loa ridin' him all day?_"

Mathieu's _konesan_ goes a long way to filling in the gaps: Agassou, a loa of foresight, Petro brother of the Rada Simbe. Sam's had a loa of prophecy riding him all day? Dean never knew, couldn't tell. "_I'm a fucking awful _konfians kay," he tells Ogou, doesn't bother mentioning to the loa how he's failed as a _brother_, something much more important.

"Hey," Sam says, reaching out and punching Dean lightly in the shoulder. There's another crack of static electricity but it isn't nearly as strong. "Whatever you're thinking, don't. Agassou rides lightly, okay? He's barely been there."

That would make Dean feel better, but now that he's thinking about it, "The _memeres_ knew, didn't they. That one, she said you knew what they'd decided." He stops there, thinks back, and says, "She said that sometimes it's better not to know. What does that mean? And, Sam," he adds, blood running cold, "what have you seen?"

"Just the landing," Sam says. "Agassou won't be back now. I'm not gonna get anything else from him."

Sam sounds almost sad, halfway regretful. Dean thinks of Danny, of Ti-Jean and Karrefour, and wonders what the hell they're doing while another Petro loa rides their horse.

"_Chafing like they be under the bridle,_" Ogou says, "_'stead o' the _poto mitan."

Dean thinks that's a halfway decent punishment for letting another loa ride Sam, especially one like this. Agassou might ride gentle but he takes a lot out of his horse. Foresight and prophecy have always been difficult things to control; Sam might have gone to one of Simbe's horses for guidance before but he's not bound to Agassou. Things will be harder just because of that.

"Let's go home," Dean says.

Sam gives him a fond look, if somewhat exasperated. "We're halfway there, Dean. And it won't be any calmer once we get there." Dean asks what the hell that's supposed to mean and Sam says, "The Petro have been coming into town for the past two days and probably a dozen more arrived when we were with the _memeres_. Once we cross the river, you'll feel them all, trust me."

"And they've decided to crash our house?" Dean asks.

"Every army needs to get its orders from someone," Sam says, looking out of the window. "I'm the _poto mitan_." He pauses and Dean waits, is rewarded for his patience when Sam turns a troubled glance at him and says, "But it's your city. I might outrank you but they'll look for your permission, too. You could cause a lot of havoc for me -- and them -- if you don't give it."

Dean thinks that over, worries at it like a piece of food caught in his back teeth. He doesn't say anything else about it. As they cross the river, get back into New Orleans proper, Dean feels a dull ache settle in the back of his head. He glances at Sam, sees Sam frowning, pain lines radiating out from the corners of his eyes.


	3. Thursday, August 25, 2005 - Part Two

Dean decides to wait another day or two before finding someplace safe to stash the Impala, just in case Sam needs to go run more errands. Sam doesn't argue when Dean talks out his reasoning and doesn't call him on his attempt to justify keeping the Impala as close as he can for as long as he can. Sam just smiles as they park in the same lot as always, smiling growing a little deeper as they hold hands on their way back to the house. Dean glares at everyone who dares to look at them the wrong way, not exactly comfortable with such an open display, even here, in a city where he feels safe, but Sam's tired, tense, and Sam's grip is cutting off the circulation to Dean's fingertips. Dean merely squeezes back when he can and lets his free hand rest easy near his gun.

Sam pauses three houses down from theirs, sighs and lets his shoulders slump. "Everyone's here," he says.

Dean narrows his eyes, gives the house a considering look. Even with Ogou's hunter-traits and his own finely-tuned senses, the only thing setting off Dean's instincts is the fact that there aren't any people peering out of the windows around them. Usually he sees at least one curtain twitching, gets the flick of hair as someone ducks inside from the edge of a gallery or balcony. 

"Who are they? And how many people," he finally asks, "is 'everyone?'"

Sam gives him a wry smile, lets go of Dean's hand and takes a deep breath. "Petro," he says. "Lots and lots of Petro. Most of them won't be staying with us, thankfully, but they're here to check in and get their marching orders."

Dean groans at the thought of wrangling as many Petro vodouisantes as that sounds like it's going to be, especially when he probably won't know most of them. Still, Sam's neck is still covered in bruises and he has Dean's name on his hip; if anyone's stupid enough to ignore either of those, then they'll deserve whatever he and Ogou will do to them. He reaches out, takes Sam's hand back in his, and starts heading for the house.

\--

All of the sound in the house disappears the instant Sam opens the door. There had been noise before, talking, shouting, people moving around, even, Dean thinks, some jazz or blues playing in the background. As soon as the door opens, though, it all stops. The house feels like it's on the verge of something, teetering on the brink of a very long drop; Dean doesn't understand why.

"My people," Sam murmurs, once Dean's walked inside and closed the door behind him, "and your city."

Dean grits his teeth, nods. "Ready when you are."

The _badjikan_ is waiting in the hall for them, leaning on the closed door to the living room. He smiles without showing teeth, without showing any happiness or joy at all. "Get things taken care of?" he asks.

"Yes," Sam replies, simple and not sharing an ounce of detail. Dean doesn't blame his brother at all. "Is everyone here?"

"Here and waiting," the _badjikan_ says, eyes flicking between Sam and Dean. "Eager to hear what y'all're gonna say."

Sam nods and the _badjikan_ hesitates before straightening up, inclining his head and sliding into the living room. There's a brief spike of noise which fades back to silence a moment later. Dean reaches out, squeezes Sam's shoulder. Underneath the clothes Sam's wearing, underneath the skin, Dean can feel loa circling like the hurricane coming their way.

"Are _you_ ready?" Dean asks.

"No," Sam says. "Not for this." He takes a deep breath and Dean can feel the loa swoop in, more of them than he can count, more of them than he ever thought existed. Sam changes under his touch, becomes something more, something _other_, and Dean feels, for the first time, that he's standing in the presence of his _leader_, the only one who has the power to bless or curse him, to allow him his life or take it from him.

Sam turns to look at him and the expression in Sam's eyes is fey and foreign, darker than Dean's ever seen before. Dean drops his hand but not his eyes; he might not be Sam's equal but he's _Sam's_ and Sam is _his_. That has to count for something.

"I haven't asked for your permission yet," Sam says, "to take over your territory. And I'm not going to until we're in front of all of those people. I hope you've been thinking, Dean, and I hope you're ready to answer the question when it comes."

Dean swallows but he nods, as well. This is the _poto mitan_ that the others have seen before, the one who carries the _konesan_ of all the past leaders, good and bad, generous and dangerous. This is a side of Sam that Dean's never met, not even when Sam gave Dennis a death sentence. Dean gets chills but doesn't back down or away. Sam's half-smile, the curious light in his eyes, doesn't do a lot to reassure Dean. Neither does the way Ogou's laying low, quiet and watchful.

Sam heads for the living room; it takes Dean's brain a second to kick in, still in some shade of frozen disbelief. He catches up before Sam opens the door, though, and enters the room right behind Sam.

Dean thought he was ready but seeing the room crowded full of Petro, he's not sure he was prepared for _this_. There must be twenty-five people all crammed into a room which is really only big enough to hold seven or eight comfortably. If that wasn't bad enough, there's a giant television mounted on the wall, screen split into three sections, each section showing a room full of people. Dean looks, sees a webcam pointed at the front of the room where Sam's heading.

With a muttered prayer, Dean follows his brother, steps over people, nods at the ones he recognises: his own Petro vodouisantes, a few _konfians kays_ he's met over the past few months, Tony and some of his crew in from St. Louis. There's no sense to be made of who's here and who's elsewhere, watching via computer camera; it doesn't seem to matter what rank a person is, just who made it here first and who had to go watch from other places Dean's never seen before.

"_Ago_!" Sam calls out, bringing everyone to attention. "Thank you for your patience. The New Orleans Petro _konfians kay_ and I bring good news from the _memeres_ in Plaquemines Parish. They have begun evacuating residents along the Mississippi and will continue to do so. They have also agreed to strengthen their territory wardings and watch over them. Their support cannot be overestimated. However, there is bad news as well. Hurricane Katrina has struck Florida and is making her way through the state. Agassou and Simbe have renewed their message: the hurricane _will_ hit here and their best guess puts it arriving late Sunday. Most of the Rada are being evacuated from the city, apart from healers, who will be riding out the storm in our safe-houses in Metairie, Kenner, Laplace, Vacherie, and Houma. We have also issued evacuation orders for anyone under or over certain ages and in certain conditions of health. If you want more information on that, talk to the _badjikan_."

Sam pauses just long enough for someone in the back of the room to call out, "No disrespect, _poto mitan_, but the government ain't doing nothing. Agassou and Simbe, you sure they be right 'bout this?"

"I'd rather have them be wrong," Sam replies, bluntly. "In fact, I pray to _le gran met_ they're wrong. But we're not taking chances. Based on what they've told us, I'm going to be giving out orders; if anyone has a problem with that, bring it up now."

Two _konfians kays_ stand up; one of them is the Petro _konfians kay_ from Memphis and he looks apologetically at Sam before saying, "I have to ask, _poto mitan_. We all know the New Orleans Rada has ceded her authority, but do you have the permission of the New Orleans Petro to take over?"

Sam turns to Dean, along with everyone else. Dean's been thinking about this since Sam brought it up crossing the Mississippi, been wondering if there's any better alternative and coming up blank. He can't take over -- even if he thought he was capable, he wouldn't do that to Sam. Sam's the _poto mitan_ and whatever he says goes; he's the only one that has the power to talk and see things get done. Maybe if it wasn't a situation as drastic as this, Dean might have second thoughts, but he'd rather not have to take responsibility during a hurricane.

Just in case, though, he looks out, sees Emil and Rita on one of the screens. He stares at them, waits until they exchange glances and then look back at him, nodding.

"_What do you think?_" Dean asks Ogou.

The loa snorts, just once, and says, "_You wasting time or tryin' to bring up ev'ryone's blood pressure? Answer the question, _idyo."

Dean gives the crowd a smile, knows it isn't pleasant by the way some of them flinch, the way that a few others pale. "He's the _poto mitan_," Dean says. "And he's _ours_. Yeah, he has my permission. You think I'd be standing up here if he didn't?"

The _konfians kay_ sits back down and Sam smiles, just a flash of the lips and a change in his eyes before reverting back to the _poto mitan_ and turning to face the crowd. It was enough for Dean to see, though, and meant _only_ for Dean. His blood warms, sings in his veins, and it takes Ogou swiping at him before he can settle down enough to focus on Tony.

"How much thought have you given to what the loa are saying?" Tony asks. He's being more blunt than normal; Dean would wonder why but everyone else stopped moving the second Tony spoke up and some unidentified current running through the crowd thrums in anticipation. Even the _badjikan_ is leaning in the doorway and waiting for an answer.

"_What is he talking about?_" Dean asks Ogou.

The loa curls, clearly distressed, and says, "_He talking crazy, _cheval_. All of 'em are, bring up what they be bringing up._"

Dean pokes, says, "_What are they bringing up. Tell me._"

"I've considered our options," Sam says. Even though he looks calm, Dean can feel the tension leaking out of his brother; he presses himself even closer to Sam, lets Sam dig nails into his hand. "And I've taken the suggestion under advisement."

One of the other Petro shakes her head, says, "We know you two got history, _poto mitan_, but if she can make this any better, maybe it's time to let her out."

Someone else agrees, calls out, "We need all the help we can get, you even said that yourself," and Dean watches as people across the room start nodding. Not everyone, though, and not Tony, judging by the anger in his eyes, not Rita or Emil or any number of people who Dean knows, met before this and respects.

"What would be her price for helping us?" Rita asks, voice tinny as it comes through computer speakers. "Could we afford to pay it? Lockin' her up, it took more than we ever thought and we're _still_ trying to catch our breath."

Dean understands. In that moment, with Emil's eyes fixed on _him_ and not Sam, with Sam's fingers pressing so hard into Dean's hand that Dean's lost all feeling from his wrist down, with everyone talking about a female they locked up, he understands.

"_Why didn't you tell me_?" he asks Ogou, hurt and anger riding his voice. "_Didn't you think I had a right to know_?"

"_You speak for Orleans and you speak for me,_" Ogou says in reply. "_Tell 'em we ain't having her, not in our city, not in our people._"

Dean sees Rita watching him now, too, and Tony's eyes are hard chips of stone when Dean glances at the St. Louis _konfians kay_. "We let her out and bargain with her," Dean finally says, "what's to say she keeps her end, huh? What's to say she does what we ask and doesn't try to make it worse, to get back at us for locking her up in the first place?"

Ogou crows, urging Dean on; it takes a few seconds for Dean's vision to settle back down so that he can see everyone and everything, not just a sheen of red driving him to hunt, to protect, to kill. He bats at the loa, half-serious, and turns when he feels Sam's gaze settle on him.

Sam studies him, searches his face, and eventually looks back out over the gathered Petro. "Dean's right." Some of them start to murmur and Sam holds up one hand, getting instant silence. "But so are you. We have to balance out our need with our ability to handle her. If we go to her in a position of desperation, you _know_ how she'll act." A few of the crowd pale, starting to see that it isn't so easy as opening a jail cell and requiring parole check-ins. Dean wants to tell them they're all stupid. "As I said, I'll keep it in mind."

\--

The meeting dissolves into orders after that. Sam sets up a chain of command, gives everyone a job to do and someone to report to. The vodouisantes leave; most of the higher-ups -- _konfians kays_ and their seconds -- wait to give their contact information and get their own orders. If Dean hadn't known how much work Sam's been doing since they got the news, he would've thought this plan was set up and laid out years ago. It's a well-oiled machine, Sam delegating and everyone listening, practically snapping to attention and running out to get busy.

A few people hang around, waiting to talk to Sam even after they've been given something to do. Dean doesn't give them the chance right away, gives them all a tight smile and says, "We'll be right back," before dragging Sam out of the room and into the kitchen.

Sam looks at Dean with resignation in his eyes and Dean's tirade, the one's he been planning in the back of his mind since he caught up with the question, dissipates into nothing. Instead, he leans forward, gives Sam a gentle kiss, and pulls Sam's head down to bump foreheads.

Dean holds the position, holds Sam's cheeks in his hands, and says, "You're thinking of releasing Marinette. I can't say I'm excited, Sam, I won't lie about that or about her, not to you." Dean takes a deep breath, goes on. "But you're the _poto mitan_. Ogou and I aren't crazy about having her in our city or being in her debt, but it's your decision. You're the one who has to live with it, in the end, and if she can do some good here." He trails off, doesn't know what else to say.

"If there is any way around it, Dean," Sam says, "_any_ way, I'll take it. Hell, I probably hate the idea more than you do."

At first, Dean opens his mouth to argue. Marinette possessed him, rode him unwillingly, and forced Sam to sacrifice just about _everything_ to get her behind lock and key. Her followers have made nothing but trouble and the fact that she holds so much power over Sam, that's made trouble too. But then Dean stops and thinks.

Sam pulled Marinette out of at least two people, nearly killing one in the process, and did kill a third who was touched by her. He gave up his chance at freedom to punish her, thought he'd given up Dean as well, has been taken over by Ge-Rouge once and fought Ge-Rouge back more times than Dean thinks he knows about. Marinette broke his heart and nearly broke his mind, his spirit, everything about Sam that Dean loves. Sam would let her out if it was the best option because he loves his people and he'd hate himself for putting her back once she was done because he loves her.

So maybe, just maybe, Sam does dislike the idea more than Dean.

"Whatever you decide," Dean says, "I'm gonna be right here, with you. Okay?"

"You and me," Sam says. He takes a deep breath and Dean steps back, watches as his brother erases any and all emotion off of his face and out of his eyes except steely determination. Sam's become the _poto mitan_ again and Dean hates that even as he loves that he's the only one who gets to see what's under the mask. "Back to work," Sam says.

Dean gives his brother a half-smile. "Oh, joy," he mutters.

Sam's trying to hide a grin when he walks back into the living room. Dean feels excessively proud of himself.

\--

The house is empty by ten-thirty. Most of the Petro are staying in other places throughout New Orleans; either no one wants to voluntarily put themselves in the _poto mitan_'s house and, therefore, debt, or they're trying to give Sam and Dean some space. Dean thinks it's probably a mix of both and he appreciates it even as he thinks the house is _too_ quiet now. Tony's staying with them, as are Marcus, Doreen, and LaJane, the Petro _konfians kays_ of Memphis, Nashville, and Detroit, as well as the _badjikan_, but all of them are somewhere else right now, probably out getting dinner before the city's restaurants start putting up shutters.

Sam putters around in the kitchen, pulls out food that Marianne sent over and they eat outside in the courtyard, surrounded by figurines of the loa. The air is hot, heavy, even now, and Dean thinks he can smell something coming in the way the breeze dies, turning stagnant around them.

Once they finish eating, Dean leans against the wall and Sam sits between his legs, leaning back, head resting on Dean's shoulder. It's almost too humid but things are quiet, only the faintest hint of noise coming from the rest of the Quarter and into their ears.

"How bad is it going to be?" Dean finally asks, once the silence has soaked in and left him languid, calm for the first time all day. "Did Agassou show you that? Or Simbe?"

"No," Sam says. "They didn't. But I think it's going to be bad. Really, really bad. I'll." He pauses and Dean waits, patience rewarded when Sam says, "I'll ask Simbe again tomorrow. We'll give it some time, see what the weather service has to say, see what the mayor and governor do."

Dean breathes in, out, and is about to say something when there's a tap on the sliding door. He looks up, sees Tony and one of the other _konfians kays_ standing there, waiting to be acknowledged. Sam doesn't move so Dean does, lifts a hand and gestures for them to come out. They do, apologies written all over their faces.

"We thought you'd like to know," Tony says.

Sam sits up a little and Dean looks at the other _konfians kay_, thinks he remembers the city but not the name. "Charleston, right?" Dean asks.

The woman nods, a brisk, sharp movement. "Brigitte," she says, "but I've never been ridden by her."

"What is it?" Sam asks.

Tony glances at Brigitte and says, "Katrina was supposed to go west through Florida. It turned and went south first. They're saying hundreds of thousands are without power and a few people died in Miami. It's going through the Everglades right now."

He pauses and Sam says, "Come on, Tony, just say it."

"They're still saying it's going to hit the panhandle," Tony says. He shrugs. "I'm sorry, Sam. There's still nothing official putting it here."

Sam shakes his head, tells the two _konfians kays_ to make contact with the vodouisantes in south Florida in his name and then go upstairs and sleep. They both hesitate before leaving but Brigitte finally turns away and Tony closes the sliding door behind them as they go. The light in the kitchen flicks off a moment later.

"What if," Dean starts to say. He feels sick to his stomach, has to stop and swallow down acid before he can continue. "What if it turns at the last minute? No one would be ready, Sam. It would be."

There are no words for what it would be, what kind of damage and loss of life something like that could cause.

Sam shakes his head again. "We'll have warning," he says. "We all will." Another moment passes and Sam puts his hand high on Dean's thigh. "We should try and get some sleep as well. We're going to need it."

"Yeah," Dean says.

Neither of them move.


	4. Friday, August 26, 2005 - Part One

It's nearly two in the morning by the time they finally manage to uncurl themselves from each other and go inside the house. It's dark but there's enough light coming through the windows and glowing from the appliances to see, moreso when Sam opens the fridge, looks at the shelves for a moment, then shuts the door. Dean wants to do something, _wishes_ he could do something, but he can feel it as well, the tension in the air, the weight and heaviness every time he tries to breathe.

His chest aches for more than one reason.

Sam leans against the fridge, forehead pressed on the door to the freezer. His shoulders are slumped, the ends of shaggy hair sweeping across a line of sweat on his neck. Dean moves without thought and presses himself to Sam's back, fingertips dipping into the front pockets of Sam's jeans. He matches his breathing to Sam's and yet he still, even together and in sync like this, feels a huge gulf separating them, a thousand miles of distance between them.

Dean's only consolation is that everyone else is even further.

Sam's pocket starts to vibrate; it makes both of them jump. Dean moves back, just a little, and lets Sam get his cell phone out, answer it with a brisk, "Yes?"

"You motherfucking fuckers," Dean hears, as Sam winces, moving the phone a few inches away from his ear. Dean takes a step back, then another, until he's standing in the middle of the kitchen and Sam's turning around to look at him. "What the fucking fuck do you think you're fucking doing, not even telling us you're fucking down here? Why the fuck are you here? What the fuck's going on? _Fuck_!"

There's the sound of a dial tone, then, and Sam takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Kate," he says. "Shit."

Dean glances at the phone, then takes in the circles under Sam's eyes, the way Sam's holding himself, careful and tense, fragile as if he's glass and might shatter into pieces at any breath, at any passing breeze, at any idea of movement. "Fuck her," Dean says. Sam looks at him, eyes wide yet still, somehow, shadowed, teeming with loa. Dean's lips curl in a snarl and he says, again, "Fuck her, Sam. She can wait."

Any peace they gained in the courtyard is gone now, broken with the sound of the phone ringing and ground to dust by Kate's shouting. Dean could kill her for it and not feel one ounce of regret.

\--

They go to bed naked, curling into each other, breathing in each other's breath. The window's open and the ceiling fan clicks around and around, moving the warm air and doing less than nothing to cool them off.

"What will they do?" Dean finally asks. "The government, I mean."

Sam shifts a little; Dean's hand, on Sam's neck, slides across Sam's skin. "There's never been a mandatory evacuation," Sam says. "Even if there is, people won't leave." That seems like madness, that or sheer stubbornness, and Dean must move or make a noise, something, because Sam says, "Where would they go, Dean? This is home."

Home. New Orleans is becoming Dean's home, a little; it's hard not to think of it as home, sometimes, with Ogou and Mathieu's _konesan_ both thinking of this city as theirs. Dean, though, is used to moving, is used to thinking of the Impala as home, has been for years, and has always thought that as long as Sam's with him, he won't ever need anything else. He could leave the city in a heartbeat, so long as Sam was in the Impala beside him, and sure, if the hurricane came through and tore the city apart, he'd _miss_ it, but he'd come back afterwards and help rebuild and that would be it. New Orleans has begun insinuating itself into him, into his heart and mind and soul, but as long as he has Sam, he has everything he needs, and damn the rest of it.

It's foreign to remember that not everyone feels that way. Dean's been jealous of it before, from time to time, but he forgets, so easily.

"They'll have buses, though," Dean says. "Right? And they'll open the Superdome again, like they did for Ivan."

"This is New Orleans," Sam says. "Something will get fucked up. It always does, here. But they'll have time." Sam said something similar in the courtyard. Dean asks if Sam knows anything that the rest of them don't and Sam huffs, a puff of amused air that smells of toothpaste as it blows in Dean's face. "No," Sam says. "But I have a feeling we'll get an updated prediction in the next day or so. There are too many people watching this to mess it up."

Dean sighs. "Hope you're right," he mutters, pressing his fingertips into Sam's skin a little deeper, pulling him a little closer.

He's almost asleep when he hears Sam reply, "Me too."

\--

Dean sleeps deep and doesn't dream. When he opens his eyes, his heart's racing as if he was woken by a gunshot.

"_Gotta get downstairs_," Ogou says, coiling in agitation. "Poto mitan_ be askin' for you_."

There's no hesitation as Dean pulls on a pair of jeans, no wasted moment or motion as he practically rips the door off the hinges. He can smell coffee downstairs and as he comes clattering down the stairs into the hall, he sees a pile of shoes near the front door.

"_Sam went through you, rather than yell_?" he asks Ogou, pausing in a patch of sun shining through the windows to look at those shoes. "_He doesn't want them to know he wants me there_?"

"_M_' trezò_ ain't happy with what they sayin'_," Ogou murmurs, in a tone of voice that Dean recognises as a guess, the loa trying to work something out at the same speeds as Dean with different information. "_I ain't liking it neither_, cheval."

Dean's scratching his scalp and running a hand through sleep-worn hair as he ducks through the archway into the kitchen. It's filled with people, maybe eight, ten, that he doesn't recognise. "I miss a memo?" he asks, going over to the counter and grabbing one of the Café du Monde take-out cups and setting a beignet on top of the lid. One of the others -- he has the impression of the Petro, maybe, but definitely not the power of a _konfians kay_ \-- stands up and offers Dean his chair. Dean gives the kid a narrow-eyed stare but tilts his head in thanks and sits down. "What's going on?" he asks, picking up the beignet and biting into it. The choux's warm from the heat of the coffee and the sugar's half-melted and sticky, smearing over Dean's fingers and lips.

"They came to work out what kind of assistance we can offer our people in Florida," Sam says. He takes a sip of his coffee and adds, "Katrina was elevated back to hurricane status this morning, Dean."

Hearing that sends a shudder down Dean's spine. He hides it as best he can, especially with Ogou in the back of his head, watching the others. It's a pretty even group, split between male and female but also between Petro and Rada. Dean studies each one of them, noting which of them shifts under his gaze, before he looks at Sam and raises an eyebrow.

"A delegation," Sam says. There's a gleam of amusement in his eyes but beyond that, the mindless fury of Ge-Rouge. Dean already knows he's not going to like what Sam's about to say. "From Penny and Betsy. Rada leaders of Biloxi and Charleston," Sam adds.

"I thought you had Tony and Brigitte call Miami," Dean says. Sam nods and says he did, Tampa, too, shrugging one shoulder. A wave of fury rides through Dean's blood. "Your Rada don't trust you to take care of your people? _All_ your people? What the _fuck_ is it with Rada _konfians kays_, jesus." Dean stops there, abruptly, as Ogou draws his attention to the few in the kitchen who smell of a Petro touch. "But you, you five reek of Petro -- if you're from Charleston, your _konfians kay_ is already here. If you're from Biloxi -- why are any of you here?" Dean scowls, bares his teeth a little, asks, "You'd rather answer to the Rada than your own?"

Sam leans back in his chair, sips at his coffee. He doesn't say anything but the metal tang of Petro black magic radiates out from him, meeting the peppered rum of Ogou's scent, blowing outwards from Dean. The Rada all flinch and shrink inwards while the Petro pale and shift uncomfortably in their chairs.

"_I don't think you've ever done that before_," Dean says to Ogou, though his surprise isn't enough to dispel his contribution to the weight of power gathering in the kitchen.

"_We tight, you and me,_" Ogou replies. "_An' the more you settle as my _cheval_ and into my city, the tighter we gonna get_."

His tone is quiet, the words barely audible on Ogou's breath. He's settled into the watchfulness of a hunter and Dean's not sure why, not with their people around them. Anger, he'd understand, or frustration, even amusement, but this tension -- it strikes Dean as odd.

"_Ain't strange_," Ogou says. "_Any threat to Danny's _chwal_ needs watchin'_."

Dean narrows his eyes and says, "Go home," to the gathered vodouisantes. "Florida's under control. Tell Penny and Betsy to grow the fuck up and trust their _poto mitan_ as their Petro counterparts do." There's a rush as the men and women move to follow Dean's instructions though they all freeze for a moment when Dean adds, "And make sure they know we'll deal with them after Katrina blows through."

He and Ogou listen closely as shoes go on and the front door opens and closes a few times. The house quiets, the atmosphere settling back into its normal early-morning feeling, and Dean finishes his café au lait in three long swallows.

"What the fuck," Dean says, letting out a deep breath and setting the to-go cup on the table.

Without saying a word, Sam gets up and moves to Dean's side, dropping to his knees and resting his forehead on Dean's thigh, one hand sliding up under Dean's jeans to clutch an ankle, the other tight around Dean's wrist.

It's not often that Sam gets in a mood like this. Dean slides one hand through Sam's hair, settling around the curve at the base of Sam's skull, fingers sliding in the sweat-damp hair. "You're doing the right thing," Dean says, softly. "Everything you're doing, it's all you can do right now. All _we_ can do. We'll deal with them after."

"They're just worried," Sam says.

Dean cuts him off, says, "Worry is fine. Acting like this is not. Not for a _konfians kay_. There's no excuse and no choice. We'll have to deal with them but we'll do it later."

Sam lets out a deep breath and turns his head. It's enough to look up at Dean but it's also put his mouth perilously close to Dean's groin.

It's not the time for this, it's never the time when there are people trooping in and out of the house, the _badjikan_ lurking around, potential trouble at every corner, but Sam is looking up at Dean with shadowed eyes free of loa and Dean's never been able to resist that look, not from his brother.

"Sam," he murmurs. "You sure you wanna do this?"

In answer, Sam takes his hands off of Dean's ankle and wrist, reaching to undo the button of Dean's jeans. It's torturous, Sam moving so slowly and the faintest brush of Sam's skin against Dean's belly, but then the button's undone and Sam's leaned forward to drag the zipper down with his teeth. With the fly open, Sam pulls out Dean's cock, giving Dean a raised eyebrow.

"No time for underwear," Dean mutters, and he shifts in the chair, spreading his legs wider and slouching a little. "Ogou told me to hurry this morning. Said you needed me."

"Always," Sam says, meeting Dean's eyes for another second before he tilts his head downwards and starts to suck.

\--

It doesn't take long before Dean's got one hand clenched on the table, one hand knotted tight in Sam's hair. Dean can't take his eyes off his brother, can't help the way his hips move even though he's trying to let Sam set the pace, to not just hold his brother's head still and fuck Sam's mouth with everything he's got. Sam knows, must know, because he goes with it, deep-throating Dean better than anyone else ever has or ever could; this is Sam, Sam's mouth stretched around his dick, Sam's throat and tongue and teeth.

"Sam," Dean says, half a groan, when he feels himself getting close. It's too fast, embarrassingly fast, but it feels like it's been days since they've had the time or inclination for this and Dean always comes fast with Sam, at least the first orgasm.

Sam doesn't stop, just hums around Dean's cock, and when Dean comes, Sam swallows every drop, keeps on sucking until Dean's too sensitive to take it anymore and lets the hand in Sam's hair relax, push Sam back a little.

When Sam stands up, wiping off his mouth on the back of his hand, Dean reaches out, tugs Sam closer by one of his belt loops. Dean nips gently at the soft skin of Sam's belly but when he looks down, there's no sign that Sam's aroused.

"Are you," he says, trailing off, feeling sick and guilty.

Sam bends over, kisses the top of Dean's head. "It's fine," he says.

\--

The rest of the morning passes quickly. It's quiet, for the most part, with only a few people either stopping by to give Sam updates on the evacuation or calling, passing news to the _badjikan_, who's been sitting by the phone like it's a lifeline.

By lunchtime, the skin around Sam's eyes is pulled tight with stress and dark from lack of sleep. Dean makes an executive decision and hustles Sam upstairs and into the shower.

"We're going out," he says, when Sam sticks his head out from behind the curtain and asks snarkily whether he really smells that bad. "You need a break, I need a break, and hey," he says, with forced levity, "might be the last free time we have for a while. So I don't care if we get lunch or get drunk or walk halfway across the city to Hansen's or go throw rocks in the river or, hey, even go back down to the creepy-ass _memeres_. Whatever you want, just as long as it's away from here."

"'M not hungry," Sam mutters.

Dean lets out a sharp breath from between his teeth. "We don't have to get food," he says evenly. "Even if you haven't eaten anything. But we're getting out of this house and away from everyone else for at least an hour. Like I said, I don't care what we do."

Sam looks at him, really _looks_, and something inside of him gives. It's easy for Dean to see; it's in the way Sam's shoulders lose a line of tension and the marks of stress around his eyes and mouth slack and then fade completely. Ogou is pleased but not as pleased as Dean when Sam finally nods and disappears back into the shower.

\--

Dean showers after Sam. He gets out, dresses, and goes downstairs to find a couple backpacks sitting by the front door. Both of them look full but not heavy; Dean raises an eyebrow and mutters, "Guess we're not getting drunk."

"You can't tell me that would be a good idea," Sam says.

Dean turns, sees Sam leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. He can't help himself, walks over and tangles a hand in Sam's hair, pulling Sam's head down and meeting Sam's lips with his own. They share a long, slow, and lazy kiss; Sam's hands end up in the back pockets of Dean's jeans.

"We should go," Sam says, and when Dean pulls back and away, the smile on Sam's lips is echoed by the one in Sam's eyes.

\--

They each take a backpack and Sam shouts at the _badjikan_ to call them if there's an emergency before leaving. The two walk hand-in-hand up Dauphine to Canal, then turn in the direction of Rampart. Dean eyes the few people around them, shakes his head that everyone's acting like it's business as usual, like there isn't a hurricane threatening their doorsteps.

"_Ain't blamin' 'em_," Ogou says, just as watchful as Dean. "_They ain't got no way o' knowin' what's comin'_."

"_That doesn't make me feel any better_," Dean says as Sam tugs him across Canal and over to the neutral ground. A streetcar's coming up the tracks and when it stops, Sam tugs him on, pulling out a couple dollar bills and a handful of quarters to pay for their ride.

They take seats near the middle, Sam sitting down first and Dean flipping the bench to sit across from him, one foot propped up next to Sam's thigh. "So," Dean asks, as the streetcar takes them out from the river. "Where we headed?"

Sam snorts and when Dean asks what that's about, Sam grins and shakes his head. "I thought we'd go up to City Park for an hour or two," he says. "There's some water and a few snacks in one of these," he nudges the backpack on the floor with his foot, "and a blanket, too. Not much but enough to get out of the Quarter and away from the river for a while."

"Space'll be nice," Dean says. He tries not to sound cautious, probing the edges of Sam's mood, and must succeed because Sam rolls his eyes and agrees without going into any more detail or getting his hackles up.

\--

The ride to City Park takes just about twenty minutes. Sam hasn't said a word the whole way there, just stared out of the window, but he still looks calmer, more relaxed than he had back at the house. Dean's content to follow Sam's lead, is pleased enough that they've put some distance between them and the others in the Quarter, and when the streetcar stops at the Museum of Art, they jump off and wander onto the grass, past the museum and into the trees.

It's hot and the amount of humidity in the air is enough to give Dean's lungs a good workout as he breathes. Still, it's nice here, in the shade, and quiet, too. Most of the schools have already started so there aren't any kids around and it's too hot for the older folks to be out and about; the only people around look like college kids back in town before classes start back up.

Sam finally pauses near the end of Dreyfus Drive, tilts his head at Dean in question. Dean shrugs and one corner of Sam's mouth lifts. Sometimes it hits Dean, in unexpected moments, that he and Sam are this connected, that they can have an entire conversation in looks and minute twitches of their face. He's always been possessive of his things -- granted, he's never had many, but the things that are _his_, his weapons, his boots and jacket, his car, he's always held tightly to them. He hates to think of Sam as a thing but he feels the same way about his brother, even more so when they're like this, so in tune that they could be one mind in two bodies. He's not sure whether to be excited or a little bit scared that moments like this have started happening more and more, lately.

"_Think mebbe you think too much_," Ogou grumps, relaxed at the base of Dean's skull.

Dean snorts and Sam, crouched on the ground and pulling a blanket out of one of the backpacks, looks over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

"Ogou," Dean says, gesturing at the back of his head, like that's some kind of answer. It's good enough because Sam rolls his eyes and unfolds the blanket, laying it out on the grass. Dean's eyes catch on something in the blanket and he yanks Sam backwards, making Sam fall flat on his ass.

"What the hell are," Sam says, then stops as he sees what caught Dean's attention.

The blanket's nothing fancy, some ratty Army-Navy surplus blanket the colour of vomit, but there's a gris-gris pinned to the middle of the blanket. The material's brown, the brown of wet cardboard, and it's moving.

Dean bares his teeth and reaches for the knife in his boot, but Sam puts out a hand and touches Dean's shin. An electric shock runs through Dean the instant Sam makes contact with him, pulling Dean away from the red sheen of murder that had fallen over his vision. Instead, he sneezes, the combination of Ti-Jean's metal and Karrefour's lightning clearing his head and settling Ogou back from rage into careful watchfulness.

"Sam," Dean says.

"I wasn't away from them for more than a few minutes before you came downstairs," Sam says, anticipating Dean's question, "definitely not as long as ten. Five or six minutes at the most."

They exchange looks and the cold clarity of death lurks in the back of Sam's eyes, along with his black magic loa.

"Five minutes means someone in the house," Dean says. He stops there, shakes his head in disbelief, and says, again, "Someone in our _house_."

Sam tears his eyes away from Dean's and glances around the park. There's no one near, part of the reason they settled on this spot; Sam says, "Someone's serving with two hands. I'll disassemble it, send it back, see how they like it."

Dean pokes at Ogou, asks what the hell that means, why Sam sounds so icy, a hint of maliciousness riding the edges of his words.

"_Serving with two hands, that be sorcery_," Ogou says. "_We don't look kindly on that. _Poto mitan_ can take that gris-gris apart and send the magic back._"

"_Is it dangerous_?" Dean asks, and before Ogou can answer, he asks Sam the exact same question.

Sam takes a deep breath, says, "Not if you help."

Dean drops to his knees, next to Sam, and says, "What do I need to do?"

\--

Sam unpins the gris-gris from the blanket, crooning something in Kreyòl as he holds the moving packet carefully. Whatever's inside stills at Sam's touch; Dean's not sure whether Sam's cast some sort of spell on it or if the creature's getting ready to strike.

"_Madichon ou_," Sam says. _Curse you_. "_Ou menm _ak_ kreyatè ou._" _You _and_ your maker_. He drops the gris-gris and a high-pitched, inhuman shriek echoes out of the cloth. Dean expects the noise to stop but it just grows more and more harsh, louder and higher than it has any right to be.

With steady hands, Sam opens the gris-gris. A tarantula's poised in the middle of the cloth, standing over a pile of rocks, twigs, and herbs, as well as a silver charm too faded and tarnished to make out. The spider's rocking from side-to-side and Dean doesn't know how, but he thinks the spider's making the shrieking noise that's driving nails into his head.

Another few words in Kreyòl from Sam, then his brother gestures at Dean. Dean clears his throat, tries to balance the noise in his mind: Sam's instructions against Mathieu's experience against Ogou's prodding. He takes a deep breath, says to Ogou, "_I hope you know what you're fucking doing, because I have no clue_," and then speaks out loud, eyes fixed on the tarantula. "Hear my call, Ogou, loa of the hunt," Dean says. He feels a shudder run through his body, Ogou uncoiling, stretching out his muscles and limbering up. "One who serves with two hands has targeted your _cheval_ and the _poto mitan_ of us all. With this sacrifice, I beg you, maker and finder of paths, follow the echoes of death and search out the one who would harm your faithful servants."

The scent of peppered rum explodes from Dean's body, enough to make Sam's pupils dilate and send Sam swaying. Dean doesn't feel much better, trying to ride out the heady rush, but he pulls himself together long enough to lean forward, teeth bared at the spider, and stab it in the back.

The spider falls, rolls on its back as its legs twitch, then dies. Dean blinks, light-headed, as it seems like so many things happen at once. Black ichor runs from the spider, leaving the spider to disintegrate into dust and dissipate in the wind. The blood -- blood? -- pools on the ground and then shapes itself into a rough outline of Ogou's veve. The shrieking stops as something clear and ghost-like rises from the pool of black, hovering over the spider's corpse for a few seconds before streaming off towards downtown. Ogou rushes out of him in a surge that leaves Dean feeling empty apart from the thinnest of ephemeral threads tying Ogou to his mind, following the ghost-thing.

When Dean comes back to himself enough to make sense of everything, Sam's tearing the herbs and twigs apart, tossing the rocks into the park, a different direction for each one, burying the charm in a shallow grave. When there's nothing of the gris-gris left except for the cloth it was wrapped in, Sam rips that apart with his bare hands, aided by the malevolent fury of Karrefour.

"Not a long ceremony," Sam eventually says, "but a powerful one."

"Good," Dean says, vicious pleasure in his voice even as part of his mind is following the trace Ogou's leaving throughout the city as he hunts for whoever did this.

Sam takes a deep breath, lets it out as he looks at the blanket. "I'm not sitting on that," he says. "I don't care if I get grass stains on my ass, I am throwing that blanket away as soon as I can."

"Good," Dean says again.

\--

Twenty minutes later, in a different part of the park, the blanket stuffed into one of the garbage cans along the path, Sam's leaning against a tree, Dean lying down on his back, head on Sam's lap. They're more in the sun, here, and Dean's not sure if it's the sun or the pull between his consciousness and Ogou making him tired. Sam hasn't said anything, though, and is just running his fingers over Dean's scalp, scratching lightly. This is the peace that Dean had been hoping to find by leaving the Quarter and their responsibilities behind for a few hours, and he's pleased that the gris-gris and their impromptu ceremony hasn't ruined it.

"If it's bad," Sam says hesitantly, breaking their quiet, "I may need to stay here a while. To help."

Dean opens one eye to meet his brother's gaze, answers with a light whuff of air. "_We_, I think you meant," he says, closing his eye; the sun is bright, shining almost right in his face every time the breeze moves the leaves above them.

Sam's hand pauses on Dean's scalp, just before Sam says, "I won't make you stay, Dean. You've never."

"Been one to settle down?" Dean says mildly, interrupting his brother. He shifts, just a little, but keeps his eyes closed and his tone nice and even. "At the risk of sounding like a broken record, _you and me_, you idiot. What do you think that means?"

He needs to be drunk to say anything more and he's already checked the other backpack; Sam brought water, not beer, so he'll keep his mouth shut. Dean does open his eyes, though, to look at Sam and see how Sam's taking his words. He may not like dealing with this chick-flick bullshit but sometimes Sam's in the mood and Dean never wants to disappoint Sam even if it does mean he gets embarrassed and ends up feeling and sounding like a thirteen-year-old girl.

"I'd want you to stay," Sam says, "but I wouldn't ask you to."

"Which is why I will," Dean says.

Sam holds his gaze but finally nods. He leans his head back against the tree trunk, turning his face up to the sun, and he's smiling.

\--

They snack on pralines and wash them down with water. When they run out of food, they get up, brushing grass and dirt off their jeans, and meander back through the park to the streetcar stop. Sam hasn't said anything in a while but neither has Dean; it's easy, being still and quiet like this, with Sam. It reminds Dean of long car rides, driving through the desert at night, Sam asleep next to him and the radio on so low Dean can barely hear it. It makes him think of falling asleep on beaches and park benches, on hiking trails with the stars above them and in ratty, run-down motels with traffic making noise all night long.

Right there, in front of the traffic stopped at the red lights and without any care of who might be watching, Dean reaches out for Sam, hand unerringly finding Sam's wrist, and tugs Sam close. Dean tangles his fingers in Sam's hair and pulls Sam's head down, kissing his way into Sam's mouth. There are a couple of catcalls and one whistle in the periphery of Dean's awareness but the majority of his attention is on Sam, the way Sam tastes and smells and feels, bodies pressed flush together, tongues twining like loa.

"What was that for?" Sam asks, when Dean's had his fill and pulled back. Sam's panting, his pupils blown wide and the skin under his eyebrows flushed.

"No reason," Dean says, grinning, "but we're gonna miss our ride."

Dean takes off for the streetcar and Sam follows a split-second later, laughter echoing through the thick and sluggish air in rings that grow larger and larger and never seem to die out.

They barely make it.


	5. Friday, August 26, 2005 - Part Two

There's a pot of something that smells spicy on the stove when they get back to the Dauphine house. Ogou's still out hunting and Sam's loa seem to be leaving well enough alone right now, but the _badjikan_ hovers and mother-hens them into sitting down at the table before slamming bowls filled to the brim with shrimp and sausage jambalaya in front of them.

"No trouble while you was gone, chile," the _badjikan_ says, then adds, as he leaves, "Hope it was worth it."

Dean glares but Sam doesn't respond except to pull in his shoulders, the loose relaxation they'd found in the park slowly falling away from his expression. Dean bares his teeth at the _badjikan_'s back, at seeing his hard work undone in mere _seconds_, but then Ogou zings back into his head and Dean's attention is focused on his rider.

"_Anything_?" he asks Ogou.

"_A few things_," Ogou responds, twisting and turning as he settles back into place. "_More from what I ain't finding than what I did, but a few._"

Sam lifts his head, pins eyes on Dean, and asks, "Anyone we need to deal with now?"

Ogou hesitates before replying, which is answer enough. "_You can wait, _trezò_. They ain't gonna be doing nothing else for now, I made sure of that._"

"_Guete_," Sam says, dropping his spoon and leaning back in his chair. "Well, shit."

\--

The _badjikan_ comes back in the kitchen ten, maybe fifteen minutes later. Dean puts down his spoon and looks up but Sam's focused on his bowl to the exclusion of all else. It hasn't done much good; Sam never picked his spoon back up and it doesn't look as if Sam had eaten much of anything before that.

"Latest news from them weather people," the _badjikan_ says. A moment later, the phone rings. "That'll be Penny, bet you anything on it," he says, leaves to answer and drops the paper on the table as he walks past.

Dean eyes the report, then eyes Sam. Sam's not going to move so Dean does, picks up the report and says, "They changed it. They're saying somewhere west of the panhandle, Mobile, maybe even Mississippi, now."

Sam shakes his head again but doesn't say anything, not right away. The _badjikan_ peers around the edge of the doorway, phone pressed to his neck. Sam refuses to acknowledge the _badjikan_'s presence so Dean stands, takes the phone and puts it to his ear.

"Penny," he says, is all he can say before she cuts him off.

"You've seen the latest report, Dean. How the hell am I supposed to keep everyone calm? Half of my people are down in Florida trying to help Miami pick back up or out there in New Orleans with you. We need _help_," she says, fear and anxiety bleeding through her voice.

Dean takes a breath, resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "We sent your people back this morning, Penny, and if you're bitching about them being here, it's your own fucking fault. Katrina's coming _here_. You'll get the effects but not the worst of it."

"We're going to get _hit_," she argues back.

"Not as bad as us," Dean snaps. "Now pull it together or put someone else in charge. We don't have time for a freak-out, okay?"

He can hear her take a deep breath, then another. Dean gives her a minute, looks at Sam, still sitting there, hunched over and staring at the weather report. "Okay," Penny says. "You're right. But what am I supposed to tell everyone when I hardly believe it?"

Dean blinks. "Even knowing that Simbe's the one who gave us the warning, you still doubt? When Agassou's said the same thing? Dude, Penny, you're a _konfians kay_. How can you not trust the loa on this?"

"It's not just the loa," Sam says. Dean tells Penny to hold on a second and moves the phone away from his ear, taking a couple steps into the kitchen to better hear his brother. "You can feel it, too, can't you, Dean. The air here, the way the wind tastes. Something's going to happen to your city and you _know_ it."

Sam turns and Dean almost recoils. His brother looks so haunted, so disconnected.

"_Because he right_," Ogou murmurs, unhappiness in his voice, that and regret, sorrow. "_As much as he loves Orleans, it ain't his city. The place that should be his, that ain't neither, belongs to the _memeres_. _Poto mitan_ ain't got no place o' his own and all the places that should be, something gonna be happenin' to 'em. Something he can't control._"

Dean frowns, asks the loa, "_But if it isn't his place, how come he can feel it, too?_"

Ogou shrugs, lays low. "_He's the _poto mitan_. Ask him._"

"Penny," Dean says, once he puts the phone back up to his ear. "The _badjikan_'s going to give you some people to call. But you once told me that this is my city, remember? And things are moving here. Katrina's heading for both of us but what's going to happen here, it's enough to break the city."

The _badjikan_, leaning on the wall and waiting for the phone, gasps. No one's come right out and said it yet, put that much of a negative spin on what's happening. As much as he would like to take back the words, to reassure the _badjikan_, Dean won't. There was truth in his words.

He hands the phone back to the _badjikan_; Sam calls out "Tell her to get in touch with Colette," as Dean returns to the kitchen.

"It's going to be that bad," Dean says, feeling inevitability wash over him. "I only just realised. How long have you known?"

Sam looks up at him, eyes downcast and distant, hints of Ge-Rouge in the backgrounds, shades of a loa that Ogou calls Mombu Mombu in the front. "Since last week," Sam says. "Since the first time Simbe tasted the winds." He gives Dean a shadowed smile and adds, "I've had time to get used to the fact."

The _badjikan_ stands in the doorway and Dean is about to tell him to give them some space. Sam turns around, though, turns around and says, "Call Colette. Have her send Manuel over. Or she can come herself, if she chooses. It doesn't have to be right away but within the next hour. Once you know when he'll be here, contact Tony, Marcus, Doreen, Brigitte." He pauses, looks at Dean.

Dean frowns, says, "Rita and Emil."

Sam nods, turns back to the _badjikan_, goes on, "Rita and Emil. The _konfians kays_ can bring their seconds if they wish but no more than that. I want them here."

The _badjikan_ nods, all traces of good humour wiped off of his face. "As you will, _poto mitan_."

\--

People start arriving five minutes later. The first is Tony; he peers into the kitchen then hurriedly backs away, disappears into the front room. They hear the door open and close a few times but Sam doesn't move and so neither does Dean. Sam isn't saying anything either, has his elbows on the table and his eyes covered by his hands. He looks the picture of despair and Dean wishes there was something he could do. He'd do a lot to make this better for New Orleans but he'd do _anything_ to make it easier on Sam.

Sam moves when the _badjikan_ knocks on the wall and says, "Ev'ryone's here and Manuel's on his way. You wanna wait for him with the rest?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "No sense in keeping him here any longer than necessary." The slightest hint of a smile crosses Sam's lips as he adds, "He'll be nervous enough as it is."

The _badjikan_ snorts and Dean frowns, asks as he stands, "What's so funny?"

Sam looks at Dean, gives his brother a long blink. "Manuel's Rada, through and through," he says. "And there'll only be Petro here, unless Colette comes with him."

Dean thinks back to the time Sam sat in judgment of the Rada, tries to figure out if he can remember Manuel but nothing comes to mind.

\--

The kid, Manuel, walks in alone, eyes wide, stepping gingerly over and around people sitting on the floor. Sam crooks a finger and Manuel -- he can't be more than twenty, looks barely out of high school -- comes closer, swallowing. When he finally gets to Sam, there's a hum of anticipation in the air coming from everyone except Manuel, who simply looks terrified.

Sam holds his hands out, eyebrow raised. Manuel hurriedly grasps them, waits for Sam to bend down and kiss his forehead, let him go, before backing up. "You, uh," he says, licks his lips. "You wanted to see me, _poto mitan_?"

"This isn't going to hurt," Sam says, "but take a deep breath." He puts his hand on Manuel's forehead and murmurs something in Kreyòl, something harsh and guttural that Dean doesn't recognise off the bat and Ogou can't translate, not to anything that makes sense.

The kid shakes but Sam steadies him with the other hand; when he opens his eyes, Manuel's being ridden, loa visible as it twists and turns and settles down. The whole process took seconds and it looked painless, unlike the last time Sam forced riders onto horses.

"Ayah aie," Manuel says, voice smoother and deeper. "I ain't be changing my mind, _poto mitan_. The 'cane's still coming for here, for Orleans, and it gonna be here sooner 'n y'all wanna hear tell."

Sam nods, says, "Thank you, Simbe."

The loa nods in return, adds, "Watch yourself out for some water," and Manuel shudders as the loa leaves. With a glance, Sam summons the _badjikan_ and he takes Manuel out toward the kitchen, leaving Sam and Dean in a room full of Petro who heard the prediction straight from Simbe's mouth.

"Simbe's never been wrong, not about something like this," Sam says. "He had a taste of the winds. He knows it's coming here."

The crowd murmurs but no one argues. Dean looks out over the faces, sees that some of the most stubborn are starting to believe them. He wonders what would convince them entirely but doesn't think anything will, short of the hurricane itself.

"We'll have food down at the Paginot house," Emil says, standing up and speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. "We'll leave the doors open and one of the local Petro will be by the phone until midnight if you need to coordinate with your people. After that, you might have to wait a minute for us to answer."

The phone rings and the _badjikan_ peers around the door a couple seconds later, cordless in hand. "_Poto mitan_," he says. "You'll wanna be hearing this."

Sam exchanges a glance with Dean, then stands and goes over to the _badjikan_, takes the phone and puts it on speaker. "This is Sam," he says.

"_Poto mitan_," a woman says, voice tinny and crackling in the room's silence. "This is."

"Emilie," Sam says, interrupting her. "What's happening?"

She takes a deep breath, audible even through the speaker-phone. "The governor's declared a state of emergency for Louisiana," Emilie says. "Army and Air National Guard units are being activated and they're talking about mandatory evacuations, though nothing's been settled yet. I just. I thought you should know."

"Thank you," Sam says, and hands the phone back to the _badjikan_, who disappears again. Sam stands there for a moment, then squares his shoulders and turns back to the gathered Petro. "It's coming _here_," he says, voice firm. "It's going to hit _here_. And we have to keep an eye out for water."

Dean thinks of the _memeres_, the imbalance of elements outside of that creepy little house, and then what Simbe said. Something's coming, all right.

Katrina is coming.

\--

Sam doesn't go back to his dinner after the meeting. Instead, he disappears out to the courtyard for a while, kneeling at the base of Ti-Jean's statue. The hot smell of metal drifts in the kitchen windows and tickles Dean's nose.

"Why do you think he's at the dwarf's feet?" Rita asks quietly, coming up to stand on Dean's left side, handing over a beer that's cold enough to shock Dean's system when he takes a sip.

Dean shrugs, thinking back to what Sam told him once, about Ti-Jean serving as a father figure, and says, "Not my place to ask."

He feels Rita's eyes on him and isn't surprised when she pushes a little, says, "But you have an idea. An opinion. Yeah?" Dean nods and she makes a noise, says, "S'long as someone does."

She leaves it at that and Dean's thankful. He's not sure how he'd put the relationship between Sam and Ti-Jean into words, from the things Sam has said and what Dean's been able to glean from watching his brother. It goes beyond a father-son bond, beyond a mentor and mentee, into something like deep communion. They understand each other, both the parts that lead and the parts that search, the parts that feel responsible and the parts that yearn to be taken care of. Danny is Sam's prowling heat and Karrefour is Sam's vicious cold, but Ti-Jean is more: necessity, understanding, compassion, will.

"Emil and I got things to finish up," Rita finally says. "We'll take the rest of 'em out with us."

Dean murmurs something to her, he's not even sure what, and she squeezes his shoulder as she walks behind him.

He stands there, watches a few minutes more, and Ogou's quiet but the loa's hovering just behind Dean's eyes, watching Sam just as closely.

"_We'll leave him to it_," Dean says. "_Just for a little bit longer._"

"_M' _trezò_ be hungry when he's done_," Ogou offers.

"_I was thinking about checking the freezer,_" Dean says. "_We'll probably lose power in a couple days_."

Ogou snorts, says, "_Don't just think about it then, _idyo."

Times like these, Dean wishes Ogou would ride someone else, just so he could punch the son-of-a-bitch loa.

\--

Sam comes in just before eight and smiles apologetically at Dean, who waves him off before he has a chance to say anything.

"You didn't eat dinner," Dean says instead.

Sam raises an eyebrow and sits on a chair, one elbow on the kitchen table, chin in his palm. "Yes I did," he says.

Dean snorts. "Dude, you didn't even bother moving it around your bowl. Give me some credit, all right? Before you do anything else tonight, _eat_."

Sam rolls his eyes but he waves his other hand and grumbles, "Fine."

"Thank you," Dean snarks. "Especially after I cooked." Sam straightens up and Dean holds out one hand, says, "No comments from you. Silence and eating." He takes a plate out of the oven: steak, baked potato already loaded with butter and cheese, green beans.

"Dean," Sam says.

Dean hands over a steak knife and a fork, saying, "Silence and _eating_, Sam."

Sam glares but his shoulders dip. He starts to eat, giving Dean mutinous looks as he chews, but by the time Dean sits down across from Sam, sliding over a beer, Sam's full attention is on the food. He practically inhales the steak, attacks the potato, and finally stops halfway through the green beans. Sam leans back, lets out a belch that has Dean wrinkling his nose at the smell, and says, "Fuck, I was hungry."

"You haven't eaten anything of substance for a week," Dean says. "Pralines don't count. And fuck knows I love Marcelline and Marianne, but sometimes I just want a steak."

"And we needed to empty the freezer," Sam adds, quieter. "I didn't think it was that long. The not eating, I mean. I'm sorry. You have enough to."

Dean cuts Sam off, says, "Don't you dare say that, Sam. Don't you dare fucking say that. You know what's more important."

Sam flushes, high on his cheekbones. "I know."

The silence between them lingers, heavy with unsaid words but not uncomfortable. It's Sam who breaks it, finally, saying, "I need to call some people. The non-vodouisantes. Make sure they're boarding up and getting out of town. We know what's happening but as long as reports are still saying Florida, Alabama, they won't leave."

"Will you," Dean starts to say, then stops, not sure how to finish, not sure what he was going to ask.

An honest smile hits Sam's lips and travels up to his eyes as he says, "Yeah."

\--

It takes Sam a couple hours to get in touch with all the non-vodouisantes who work for him here in New Orleans and along the coastline to Pensacola. The people who run his bars and cafes and who look after his homes when he's out of town are stubborn down to a tee but the majority of them give in after a few minutes of Sam's wheedling. The rest all agree to go once Sam tells them he's shutting everything down anyway and he'll pay their wages until he opens again, pay for flights and hotels and loved ones as well. Dean's never felt the need to know just how much money his brother has but sometimes he wonders. Sam would tell him if he asked but Dean doesn't want to be that kind of person, doesn't want to come across any way other than what he is, deep down.

"_Idyo_," Ogou calls him, and judging by the emotion in Ogou's voice, if he'd been riding someone else, he would've ruffled Dean's hair.

Dean pokes at Ogou, tells him to shut up, and takes a shot of rum out to Ogou's statue once the dishes are done and put away.

\--

By ten, the house is quiet; the other _konfians kays_ and the _badjikan_ have all gone up to their rooms and are probably asleep, judging by the lack of noise Dean hears from upstairs. Dean's at the kitchen table, catching up on the last few days' worth of newspapers and listening to the radio, just loud enough for Dean to hear something smooth playing, slow jazz with a soul fusion, he thinks. It suits the way he feels: tired, spread out and waiting as people and events around him are moving too fast to keep up with.

Sam had finished his phone calls, given Dean a distracted smile, and then gone back out to the courtyard. He's been kneeling at the base of Karrefour's statue for close to an hour when the music on the radio gives way to an announcer.

"Hate to tell all y'all this," a woman says, voice thick like molasses but something wary and bitter underneath it that has Dean turning in the radio's direction. "We just got an update from the National Weather Service and it don't look good. Katrina's turning over the Gulf and they're saying it's heading straight for us. Now, it may move again and head for Houston or Pensacola, but I'm bettin' that the governor's on the phone to the mayor right now. Weather Service says Buras-Triumph but y'all know we right up the road. I think maybe it's a good time to start getting out of town if you're thinking 'bout going."

Dean gets chills. He turns back to call Sam inside but when he looks at the doorway, Sam's already standing there, six feet from Dean.

"Jesus," Dean says, heart racing. "Warn a guy, would you?" He waits for Sam to say something, waits for more from the radio, but the DJ's put music back on, so he looks at Sam and takes in the tilted head, the darkness bleeding out of Sam's eyes and covering his face. "Karrefour," Dean guesses, though he knows that's wrong as soon as he says it. The loa riding Sam right now isn't Karrefour, not with the shadows, not with Sam's absolute silence and stillness.

When Sam doesn't reply, doesn't move, Dean's heart skips another beat and chills chase goosebumps out from his spine to cover his arms and legs in shuddering waves. Dean can see his breath in the air, coming out of his mouth like clouds of lace that turn to ice pellets and drip to the floor in tinkling little chimes.

"Sam," Dean says, practically wheezes, eyes wide. He can't feel Ogou. For the first time since Ogou crashed through the block in his head, Dean's entirely alone. It would feel so absolutely fucking strange if he wasn't focused on the fact that he seems to be dying of hypothermia. It's so _cold_ and he can't move, can't breathe. "Ple--" he starts to say, has to stop because his lungs have stopped, his heart has stopped, and his vision is going black, black like the spectres in Sam's eyes.

Dean feels himself falling and that seems to jar Sam out of whatever loa-led trance he'd been caught in, taking the magic with it. Sam crosses the measly space between them and catches Dean just before he hits the floor. Dean clutches his brother's shirt, teeth chattering.

"Shit," Sam's saying, over and over again, "shit, Dean, I'm sorry, fuck, I'm _so_ sorry, jesus, fuck, Dean, are you -- _shit_."

"Fine," Dean says. The ice on the floor has melted and whatever darkness had come into the room is gone; it's bright, now, and Dean can hear the radio again. It's like nothing happened but he knows something did, _knows it_. "I'm fine. What the _fuck_." He pushes at Sam a little to move back and Sam does, hunching in on himself. "Fuck, Sam," Dean says. "I'm not pushing you away. I just want to get out of the water, okay? My ass is cold and wet. Help me up."

Sam stands and then offers Dean his hand, clearly expecting to Dean to smack it away, but Dean takes it and hauls himself up. There, in the kitchen, lights still on and the front door unlocked, Dean shucks his jeans and sits down at the table. When Sam eyes him, Dean raises an eyebrow and says, "Your mess, _you_ clean it up. And you can tell me what that was while you work."

"You're _sure_ you're," Sam starts to say, taking one step towards Dean.

"I'm fine," Dean says. "You're standing in a puddle," he adds after a few seconds, while Sam's still standing there.

Sam looks down, seems to notice the water for the first time. "Ah," he says. "Right."

"I didn't realise that there was a freaking _ice zombie_ loa," Dean says, still with the even tone that seems to be getting through to Sam.

"There's not," Sam says as he finally stops staring at Dean and heads for the drawer with the dishtowels. "It was Kita."

Dean makes a noise of acknowledgment and makes a mental note to get Ogou to explain everything he knows about this Kita-loa later. "How did he -- he? -- get in you?" Dean asks. "Were you calling out again, like with Ge-Rouge?"

"She," Sam says, and drops to his knees, towels in hand. "And no. I think Karrefour opened the door for her," he says, not meeting Dean's eyes. "I'm not sure. It was strange. It felt like the first time I was ridden, back in San Francisco."

"And she can drive other loa away, too?" Dean asks.

That gets Sam's attention and he looks up at Dean with a frown. "Drive other -- what?" He peers at Dean, squinting, then his eyes widen in shock. "Ogou," he breathes.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Ogou."

"He's not gone," Sam says, after a moment of intense searching that Dean feels down to his bones. "Just -- blocked off. You should be able to --."

Dean cuts his brother off, holding up a hand to stop Sam mid-sentence. "Yeah," he says. "I got it."

He prods the back of his mind, the space where Ti-Jean's block once rested, and feels the electric refusal of Karrefour spark back at him. Dean narrows his eyes, grits his teeth, and pushes through the lightning, says, "_Want him back, Karrefour, you damned bastard_," and feels the block explode like a punch right to the face. Dean nearly falls off the chair; he steadies himself and, when he's caught his balance and his breath both, he blinks. Ogou's riding him. Dean's stuck in his own head.

"_Trezò_," Ogou says, and for all the leering Ogou's doing, the loa sounds serious as he leans forward, reaches out to lift Sam's chin. "Not your fault." Sam shrugs one shoulder and doesn't argue though it's clear he disagrees. Ogou clucks his tongue, drops to the floor, takes Sam's cheeks in his hands. "Let me and the dwarf handle 'im, _trezò_," Ogou murmurs, licking his way into Sam's mouth. "Let us take care of this." Ogou kisses Sam, uses tongue and teeth and still, somehow, manages to be gentle. Halfway through the kiss, Ogou slinks back to the normal part of Dean's skull, curling and settling in like he'd never left. "_Never thought I'd miss a _cheval," Ogou tells Dean.

Dean's too busy kissing Sam to snipe back.

\--

When Sam feels calm -- or at least calmer -- under Dean's mouth, Dean sits back on his heels, takes in Sam's expression. He looks exhausted, wrung dry and an inch away from spiralling into pieces. "I'll clean up," Dean says. "You should get ready for bed."

"It was my fault," Sam says.

"You said it was Karrefour's fault," Dean points out, "not yours. And it's just water. It won't take that long."

\--

Ogou waits until Dean's on his hands and knees, mopping up the water, before he says, "_We should pro'ly talk 'bout what happened_, cheval."

Dean sighs, asks, "Do we have to?" out loud. He's the only one in the kitchen, the only one downstairs, and, hopefully soon, he'll be the only one awake. Sam looked like he was about to fall asleep standing up, exhaustion written into every bone and muscle. He always makes hosting the loa look easy; it's strange to see him like this.

"_Think it'd be better if we did_," Ogou say, and he sounds so honestly reluctant that Dean starts to get worried. He finishes cleaning the floor and stands up, dropping the last sodden rag into the sink, and sits at the table. "_You ain't gonna like this_."

"I already don't like this," Dean says. "Especially the way you're pussy-footing around the topic. Just spit it out."

Ogou snarls half-heartedly and asks, "_Anything in your _konesan_ recognise that name? Kita?_"

Dean searches and doesn't come up with anything. He puts an elbow on the table, rests his chin in his palm, and tries to remember if Sam ever named that loa during all of their discussions. He doesn't think so.

"_No doubt the _poto mitan_ had a very good reason for that_," Ogou says. Dean's stomach is already sinking, even before Ogou goes on to say, "_Kita, she works hand-in-hand with my wife's sister._"

Marinette. Dean feels a shiver-shock of cold rush through him, head to toe, and panics for a split second before he realises that it's just a memory, just fear, that Kita isn't back to try and -- "_She tried to kill me._ Fuck. She, was this, that _bitch_."

Ogou curls in Dean's skull, warm and comforting and nothing like the remembered weight of Marinette. "_I ain't liking this_, cheval."

"Yeah, no shit," Dean snaps. "Fuck."

"_'Tween this, the gris-gris, all the problems with your people along the coast_," Ogou says. "_And with the boundary wards taken down? Mebbe some o' my wife's sister's allies are trying to move things, take advantage. The only thing I wonder now is why the night crossroads be openin' the way for it. For _her."

That is a damn good question.


	6. Saturday, August 27, 2005 - Part One

Even though they didn't get to bed until the early hours of the morning, Sam's up and in the shower by six, ghosting downstairs with Karrefour's stealth as Dean's trying to wake up enough to walk to the bathroom. His eyes are full of crust and his mouth tastes dry and sour. There's an ache at the base of Dean's skull that has nothing to do with getting used to Ogou again and everything to do with the near-miss last night on top of too much stress and too little sleep.

"_Guess y'all just sleep when this be done with,_" Ogou says. "_Seems like my _trezò_ ain't gonna let either o' you do anything but worry 'ti the 'cane hits._"

Dean's not even sure they'll be able to rest then but he tries not to think about it as he takes a criminally quick shower. After he towels dry, he gets dressed, skin going straight from shower-damp to humidity-damp, even this early in the morning.

Sam's got a cup of café au lait waiting when Dean finally makes it to the kitchen; Dean chugs it down in six straight swallows then heads to the сafetière for more, picking up a plate of scrambled eggs and home fries on his way back to the table.

"I have to run a few errands this morning," Sam says. He takes a deep breath, adds, "I want to go alone."

Dean eyes him, chewing and swallowing the food in his mouth. He could bring up Kita and Karrefour now but Sam looks focused and stressed out and as much as Dean and Ogou want answers, Dean has a feeling he knows what kind of toll those answers would take on his brother. He can wait and Ogou's trepidation about tangling with Karrefour on a good day is a lot to deal with; today it's all Dean can do to ignore the anxiety in his loa.

"Alone, or just without me?" he asks, deciding to let it pass -- for now.

The corners of Sam's mouth quirk upwards, just for a split-second, as if he knows the decision Dean's just made. "Alone," he says.

"Fine," Dean says. He doesn't like it, but there's not much he can do, and if Sam wants to do -- whatever it is he's got up his sleeve by himself, he'll be binding his loa to secrecy or silence as well. "Where will you be? Will we be able to get in touch with you if we need you?"

Sam smiles this time, an outright smile that has Dean raising an eyebrow in question. "_Konfians kay_," Sam says. "It's--." He stops, shakes his head, and instead reaches out for Dean's hand. Their fingers twine together and Sam leans forward, presses his forehead to Dean's knuckles. It's quiet, early, and the rest of the house is either still asleep or in their rooms; the Quarter outside is silent. Dean feels heat lick at the base of his spine. He wants to carry Sam back upstairs and lock them in the bedroom until all of this is over.

They sit there, like that, and Dean's not sure how long it lasts, but eventually Sam leans back, lets go, and takes a sip of his coffee. "I have to go to Chalmette," he says, and it takes Dean a second to make sense of that, to realise Sam's answering his question. "Then I need to run over to Carrollton, with a stop on Canal on my way back. It shouldn't take more than a couple hours."

"Do you need the car?" Dean asks.

A honk from outside, and Sam stands up. "The monseigneur's taking me," he says. Sam grabs his phone from the counter, adds, "Call me if you need me. I'll answer," and disappears down the hall, but not before pressing a kiss to the top of Dean's head, murmuring a quiet "Thank you" as he does.

The front door closes and Dean sighs, looking down at his half-finished breakfast. He's lost his appetite.

\--

Emil and Abby ring the doorbell at eight o'clock on the dot. They come bearing food: dishes with fresh breakfast casseroles of some kind from Marceline or Marianne, a basket of rolls, a gallon of orange juice still dripping condensation. The Petro upstairs start moving around soon after, Tony and Marcus stumbling downstairs with glares and bed-head, followed a few minutes later by Doreen and LaJane in much the same state. The food and coffee soon has them in better moods, enough to nod at Dean or, in Doreen's case, mutter, "G'morning."

Tony shoves a plateful of food into his mouth at record speed and then goes back upstairs for a quick shower; LaJane takes her food out into the courtyard and sits in front of the statue of Ti-Malice. Doreen gives Dean a narrow-eyed look after she cleans her plate and pours a third cup of coffee, sitting down across the kitchen table from Dean and next to Marcus.

"Felt something last night," she says.

Marcus looks from Doreen to Dean and back again, straightening up in his chair. "Was that," he says, then stops, shakes his head. "No. It can't have been." He looks at Dean again, asks, "Was it?"

Rather than answer, Dean asks, "What was what?" before taking a sip of his coffee like he's not at all concerned. He hadn't thought about it last night, the fact that there were four other _konfians kays_ in the house, all of them Petro. He should have, him or Sam. Maybe Sam did, Dean's not sure, but he doubts it.

Doreen's eyes are still fixed on Dean; she's ignoring Marcus completely. "Major mojo," Doreen says. "Something real big. Wild. What happened?" 

Dean's not exactly sure what to tell her. He has the feeling that knowing Kita rode Sam last night -- that Karrefour opened the gate without Sam even knowing -- won't make Doreen feel any better.

"We -- Sam and I -- had a visit from a loa," Dean says.

"Bullshit," Doreen says. "You're the Petro _konfians kay_ of New Orleans, yeah, and nominally the boss of us, but you're still new enough to us, to the loa, that I'm calling bullshit on everything you said -- which wasn't much."

Marcus clears his throat and adds, almost apologetically, "Pretty much nothing, to be honest."

"Which loa visited?" Doreen asks. 

"_Ain't gotta tell 'em nothing_," Ogou spits. "_You don't answer to 'em and neither do I. Tell 'em that if you gonna tell 'em anything._"

Dean leans back in his chair, feels Ogou settle in his eyes, look out at Doreen and Marcus along with Dean. "Sam and I didn't get a chance to talk this morning," Dean says, "so until I can consult with the _poto mitan_, that's all you're getting from me." Doreen's eyes narrow and her lips part, but Dean continues before she can say anything. "I know Sam trusts you enough to sleep in the same building as you but I don't know you. I don't know what Sam wants other people to know about last night. I'm not going to jeopardise his trust in me."

Ogou howls in victory and Dean can't help the sly smile that tinges his expression, seeing Doreen blink with Dean's blunt reply.

"You're right," Doreen finally says. "But don't think I'm gonna let this drop. I'll ask Sam when he gets back."

"Fair enough," Dean replies.

\--

The kitchen stays tense but, as Tony comes downstairs and LaJane finishes her meditations in the courtyard, the atmosphere starts to relax. A different kind of tension fills the room when the house phone starts ringing just after nine. Dean opens his first beer fifteen minutes later and Marcus follows suit with a shrug. Between the house phone and the cell phones, lined up on the table in two short rows, Dean, the other four _konfians kays_, and the _badjikan_ have talked to what feels like all the vodouisantes in the South by eleven-thirty. It's hell trying to coordinate this many Petro along the Gulf Coast; Dean hates to think what the government, federal, state, _and_ local, must be going through.

They've had five minutes of peace, five minutes to breathe, when the phone rings again. Dean groans and takes a long pull of his beer as Doreen answers it.

"Dauphine house," she says. There's a moment of silence as she listens to the person on the other end before she goes pale, setting the phone down on the table like it's made of glass before scooting her chair backwards. "Marguerite Lagarousse," she says. "From Plaquemines."

Sam's gone, talking to Bondye knows who. Dean looks around the kitchen, raises an eyebrow when he sees everyone looking at him, no one moving. With a sigh, he reaches over and picks up the phone, says, "Marguerite? This is Dean." There's no response, so Dean rolls his eyes and says, "_Mato_ of the night crossroads."

"Ah, _mato_," she says. "Why didn't you say so?" Dean's got a smart-assed comment ready to go, but between the murmurs that have broken out behind him and the way he's very consciously trying to ignore them, Marguerite beats him to it. "Just wanted to call and let the _frangin_ know a couple o' things. You'll pass the message on?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "What's up?"

There's a sudden staccato of voices on Marguerite's end and the sound of diesel engines. "Plaquemines is bussing out," she says, confirming Dean's guess. "The whole parish's been told to evacuate. Mandatory. The _memeres_ are goin' too. Me 'n the _loup-garou_ are gonna stay and keep an eye on everything, but everyone else is leaving."

"Where are the _memeres_ going?" Dean asks, and quickly follows that up with, "Do you have a contact number for them?"

"There's a place halfway between Thibodaux and Vacherie," Marguerite says. "The _frangin_ knows where it is. 'Basti's gonna be driving 'em up and he'll stay with 'em there."

Dean writes that down, _Thib/Vach, memeres, ML staying in B-T_, and says, "I'll let Sam know. Stay safe, okay?"

Marguerite laughs, says, "Ain't no chance of that happening, _mato_, but we'll do our best. Good luck yourself."

"Yeah, we'll need it," Dean drawls, and ends the call. He turns around, sees the other four _konfians kays_ looking at him but not meeting his gaze. "What?"

"_Mato_," Tony says, half a question. "Karrefour named you his _mato_?"

Dean nods, tosses the phone back on the table and picks up his beer. He takes a long swallow, letting the cold liquid pool in his mouth before sliding slip-slow and easy down his throat. "And?"

Tony's lips part in surprise. He glances at LaJane, who starts shaking her head. Doreen doesn't meet Tony's eyes when Tony turns to her, and Marcus is picking at the label on his beer bottle, won't even look up.

Dean's about to push, ask what the fuck they're all thinking, but the front door opens and he can smell Danny's perfume even from here. With Ogou crowing at him, Dean sets his beer down and heads for the hallway; he meets Sam halfway to the front door.

Sam's grinning at him, one of those hopelessly silly grins that melts Dean's bones, deep inside, one of those grins that's just for Dean. When it drops from Sam's face, slowly, Sam's eyes moving to focus over Dean's shoulders, Dean could kill whoever did that. He turns, sees Doreen, and his vision turns red. He's only lost in the killing haze for a few seconds, barely enough time to take a few steps towards the kitchen, before Karrefour throws magic at him and uses it to yank him backwards. Dean spins in place, snarling at the loa, who merely _looks_ at him.

"What's eatin' you, huh?" Karrefour says. "Your temper with the _kochon_ ain't nothing to laugh at, but this be different, boy."

Dean bares his teeth. "Not. A. _Boy_."

Karrefour laughs, a dark sound that curls around Dean's ankles and rubs its way up Dean's legs. "Remind me ev'ry time," Karrefour says, licking his teeth. "Fine. _Mato_." The loa's eyes focus on the people behind Dean and Karrefour closes the space between him and Dean, puts his hands in Dean's back pockets and rests his chin on Dean's shoulder. The blood and metal tang of Karrefour goes a long way to settling Dean down and having Sam here, this close to him, is helping with the rest. "I think I see," the loa murmurs. His breath is hot and wet against Dean's ear; Dean resists the urge to shudder and knows Karrefour can feel his cock starting to get hard.

"Karrefour of the night crossroads," Doreen says, cautiously. "I greet you."

"'M sure you do," Karrefour says. He snorts, the action sending vibrations through Dean's shoulder. Dean's skin crawls and Karrefour lifts his head only to bite Dean's shoulder through the thin t-shirt, hard enough to leave an imprint of teeth. Karrefour hums, brushing his nose against Dean's cheek, and inhales, scenting Dean before settling his chin back down. "No, girl, I know you. Say what you gonna say."

"I wanted to know what happened last night," Doreen says. Dean's facing away from her, so he can't see her face or Karrefour's, but judging by the shake in her voice, she's not exactly okay with being put on the spot in front of this loa. "I asked Dean but he refused to answer."

Karrefour chuckles. "An' you, _mato_? What you say?"

Dean's careful to shrug the shoulder Karrefour's not resting his chin on. "Ogou and I agreed that until we talked to Sam, we wouldn't say anything. I don't know what Sam wants her to know."

"_And as you woke 'er up last night, cousin_," Ogou mutters, "_you and the _poto mitan_ decide._"

"Shut up, _kochon_," Karrefour says. He pinches Dean's ass, hard enough to leave bruises. "And you, girl? You leave my horse and my _mato_ alone. They think you need to know something, they tell you. Neither of 'em gotta answer to you. 'Specially now, seems to me. There's enough to worry 'bout without making more hassles."

Doreen must signal her agreement or capitulation; while she doesn't say anything, Karrefour relaxes, not enough that Dean thinks the others would know but enough that Dean can feel it, with their bodies pressed against each other.

"I have a question for you, Karrefour," Tony says. Karrefour's chin digs into Dean's shoulder as he nods. "Are we allowed to spread the word that you've chosen a _mato_?"

"_If these are more of Sam's secrets coming back to bite us in the ass_," Dean tells Ogou, "_I'm going to scream. It means more than just a name? Since when?_"

Ogou's hesitant to answer. Dean pokes and prods, and the loa finally says, "_No telling, not with him. Though it means something to the others, that's for damn sure_."

"Naw," Karrefour says, answering Tony's question. "Not yet, chile. Let me have 'im to myself just a lil' bit longer. Ayah?"

"Yessir," Tony says quickly.

Dean gets the impression that Karrefour's amused, and the loa whispers in his ear. "I be seeing you after the 'cane, _mato_. Think we got some time to be making up for." Before Dean can respond to that, before his body can catch up to the promise in Karrefour's words, the tang of the loa disappears and Sam's back. 

"Drama this morning?" Sam asks mildly, disentangling himself from Dean. Dean's about to complain but Sam looks at him and Dean feels the war drums of the loa's desert echo in his blood. He grins at Sam, a smile bordering on vengeful, feral, ready for violence. Dean moves, stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam as they face the other _konfians kays_.

"Nothing I couldn't handle," Dean says. He can smell Karrefour still present in Sam, now joined by Ti-Jean and the faintest hints of Ge-Rouge. "Sam." He waits until Sam meets his eyes and says, "Ogou and I took care of it. Karrefour's had his say as well. You don't need to add anything to this discussion."

Sam's eyes are tinged red and the temperature of the air around them drops rapidly, enough to have goosebumps rise on Dean's skin. His heart skip-stutters in his chest and Ogou presses at him, crooning a comforting tune in Creole.

"I think I do," Sam says, and Dean is not relieved when Sam tears his eyes away, fixes his gaze back on the others, he's _not_.

"_Ain't no shame in feeling what you feel_," Ogou tells him. "_Not when the _poto mitan_ look at anyone like that. Them're some nasty cousins in him, take my word for it, _cheval."

Dean tells Ogou to pipe down so he can focus on Sam and it's to the loa's credit that he goes along with Dean's request without too much bitching.

"You wanna say anything, _konfians kay_ of Papa Loko's lands?" Sam asks. He waits a second, adds, "Any of you have anything to say?"

LaJane glances between Sam and Dean and says, "Not me." She puts her hand over her heart and gives Sam a half-bow before leaving the hallway and going back into the kitchen.

"Karrefour answered my question," Tony says, before following LaJane's example, bowing and leaving.

Doreen and Marcus exchange looks. "I don't have the benefit of a long relationship," Doreen says carefully, "not like Tony. And I've not been privy to some of the meetings you've had with other _konfians kays_, like LaJane has. So I'm not sorry, Sam, that I'm curious about what happened last night. It woke us all up and fine, LaJane and Tony can live with it, but I can't. Something that, that wild and uncontrolled, it can't be good. Not to mention the timing," she adds, "with a hurricane coming."

Sam holds her gaze for a long and silent moment. Dean has to give Doreen credit; she shakes a little, seeing the look in Sam's eyes, but she doesn't drop her eyes, doesn't back down.

"It's not disrespect," Marcus says, planting his feet one step behind and one step to Doreen's left. "We only --."

Marcus trails off, shaking his head, and Dean scoffs. "Not disrespect?' he says. "Fuck, man, no one believes that, not even you. Sam's the _poto mitan_ and if he doesn't think you need to know, you don't. End of story."

"If I tell you to drop it, Doreen, will you?" Sam asks. "Or are we going to have issues?"

Doreen honestly thinks about it. The silence as she does stretches out and thickens, until Dean can feel lightning crack out of Sam's body. Marcus shivers.

"I'll abide," Doreen finally says. "But there's only so much I can take, Sam. You're keeping a lot of secrets and I respect that, respect your position, I do. It's just that those secrets do make it hard to trust you sometimes."

Dean's about to ready to snap at her, to tell her that she doesn't need to trust Sam, just obey him, but Sam's fingers graze Dean's wrist and the shock of heat that accompanies the touch chases the anger away. Sam nods, clearly done with this conversation, and Doreen and Marcus both bow and leave, Marcus for the kitchen and Doreen for the stairs.

Once they've gone, once Dean hears the shower upstairs turn on and the low murmur of conversation in the kitchen, he turns to Sam and says, "You should've laid the law down on her, Sam. Mercy only goes so far; the bone law goes much further."

"Maybe after," Sam says. It's more of a concession than Dean was expecting. Sam must see the surprise in Dean's face, because he smiles and some of the tension riding his shoulders dissipates. He bends, brushing Dean's lips with his own, before resting his forehead on Dean's shoulder. "I'm so tired of this," he murmurs. "And Katrina isn't even here yet."

"You should take a nap," Dean says. "Go on, get upstairs. We've got things handled."

Sam straightens, stretches and pops his jaw with a yawn. "Don't know that I'll sleep," he says, but he goes when Dean manhandles him towards the steps. Before he goes up, though, Sam looks over his shoulder and says, "Thank you."

Dean can feel warmth start burning in his chest and spread outwards, dispelling all thoughts of cold from his mind and body. "'Course," he says. "You and me."

"You and me," Sam echoes.

\--

Dean waits until Sam's upstairs and he hears the floorboards stop creaking, then goes into the kitchen. He walks up straight to Marcus, puts his finger to Marcus' sternum, and presses hard. "We'll deal with you after this is done," Dean says, Ogou urging him on. "You and Doreen both. But until then, you fucking stay in line and leave Sam alone. Got it?"

"Got it," Marcus says, and he looks too afraid of Dean to ever be ridden by a Petro.

Dean snorts, pushes at Marcus once more, then leaves. He storms through the hallway and out the front door, making sure it doesn't slam behind him just in case Sam _did_ fall asleep. He stands there, arms folded across his chest, and just -- just breathes. He sees a few people out and about, a few windows open, but it's too hot and humid for the locals to be outside when there's football, air conditioning, and beer inside. Tourists, well, Dean bets they're probably all still sleeping off whatever they got up to last night.

"_Or leavin'_," Ogou suggests.

"_Hopefully_," Dean says.


	7. Saturday, August 27, 2005 - Part Two

Dean takes a plate of food up to Sam around three. To his surprise, Sam is actually asleep, curled up around a pillow, pain lines around his eyes and his mouth like he's wincing even now. It turns Dean's heart to see Sam look so alone and vulnerable.

"_We'll take care of 'im_," Ogou says, calming Dean before Dean can work up to a good bout of anger. "_You 'n me, just like you 'n him. Ayah?_"

"_Damn straight_," Dean mutters back.

Sam opens his eyes, looks straight at Dean. "Tell 'im to shut up," he mumbles, hair in his mouth, as his eyes close again. "Fuckin' loud."

Dean sets the plate down on the nightstand and perches on the bed next to Sam, running his hand through Sam's hair. He feels a little bit ridiculous but Sam blinks up at him, bleary-eyed but smiling, and shifts, humming, pressing himself to Dean's leg. He pulls Dean down after a minute, curls around him like a limpet, and Dean wishes they could leave, go anywhere but here, and hole up in a motel for a month, just the two of them. He knows they can't, _knows_ it, but he's not going to apologise for wanting to take Sam away and slam the door in the world's face.

The two of them lay there in a comfortable silence, ceiling fan clicking as it whirls above them, until Sam says, "Thank you."

"For what?" Dean asks.

"For this morning," Sam says. "Everything. Letting me leave, taking care of things, dealing with the others."

Dean lightly cuffs the back of Sam's head. "You already told me that, idiot," he says. "And I already told you not to worry about it. Gave me a chance to yell a bit, too; I needed that." Sam doesn't say anything, so Dean adds, "Got a call from Marguerite Lagarousse. The _memeres_ are heading somewhere outside Thibodaux but she's staying in Plaquemines." Sam tenses, just barely enough for Dean to feel, so Dean asks, "What?"

"I know they've been handed a mandatory evacuation," Sam says, "but did she say that _all_ the _memeres_ are leaving?"

"Yeah, think so," Dean says, casting his memory back. "Why?"

Sam sighs, says, "It's not a good sign. They wouldn't leave voluntarily, not unless they knew they had to. They don't -- I'm not sure. It's probably just because of the government."

"You don't sound convinced," Dean says. "Should I push and ask why not, or leave it?"

"They won't be there to anchor the bindings," Sam says. Dean's relieved to get an answer, until he actually makes sense of what Sam's saying. "In fact, if the bindings fail, they'll want to be as far away as possible. If they aren't in their territory, they won't get hit with any of the backlash."

Dean has a horrible feeling in his gut as he asks, "Who will?"

That horrible feeling is justified when Sam says, haltingly, "Me. It'll all come straight back on me."

\--

Sam sits up and starts eating once Dean's practically shoved the plate of food in his brother's face. He watches Sam with an indulgent smile on his face, waits until Sam's used the last of his crusts to scrape the crumbs off the plate before he says, "I want to ask you something."

Sam's hand stills on the way to his mouth, just long enough for Dean to notice, then carries on and pushes the crusts into his mouth with more force than Sam had eaten anything else. Dean's worried that Sam's going to choke, but Sam chews and swallows and looks down at the plate, unable to meet Dean's eyes. He nods, though, and Dean's able to read that gesture for what it really means, Sam's unspoken version of 'I don't want to talk about this but I will, so go ahead.'

"Kita," he says. "I didn't recognise the name at first, but Ogou told me. She's a friend of Marinette's?"

Sam takes a deep breath in and holds it for a long enough moment that Dean's tempted to poke his brother. He finally exhales, says, "Yeah, something like that." Dean raises an eyebrow and Sam meets his gaze for a second, just barely enough time to see Dean's expression; it still makes a wince cross Sam's face. "More like student and teacher," he says. "Kita of the Above, one of the Above's rare feminine aspects. She's not -- well. If you don't think Marinette's nice, Kita's worse. Much worse."

As much as Dean dislikes hearing Marinette's name out of Sam's mouth, he _hates_ the way Sam's shoulders are tight, the way Sam's knuckles have turned white holding the empty plate, the way Sam's not looking at him. "I'm not so much worried about who she is," he admits. "I'm more worried why Karrefour would open that door without you asking. Especially now." He pauses, asks, "You didn't ask, did you?"

"No," Sam says, almost yelling, as his chin juts up and he glares at Dean. "Of course not."

"Hey," Dean says, holding up his hands in surrender as he takes in the slight red tinge to Sam's eyes. "It was just a question, okay?"

Sam's nostrils flare and the hair on Dean's arms stands up straight with static. It's a combination of Ti-Jean and Ge-Rouge, Dean thinks, and he just hopes the dwarf will hold Ge-Rouge back long enough for them to finish this conversation.

Dean watches as Sam forces Ge-Rouge back, fighting every inch of the way, and breathes easier when Sam's eyes clear and go back to normal.

"Sorry," Sam says. He sounds so defeated.

"_Ain't being easy to keep us all controlled_," Ogou says, desperate for the urge to console Sam. "_Seems them boundary wards more important than any o' us knew_."

Sam snorts, says, "I shouldn't need the wards to help me. I should be strong enough to handle this."

"You don't have to be," Dean starts to say. He stops, taken aback when Sam shoves away from him, gets out of bed, and stalks to the window.

"I _do_ have to be," Sam says. "You could've died last night, Dean. You almost did. You could've -- there have been so many times when I've put people -- _you_ \-- in danger because I'm not strong enough. I'm not good enough. And now, even with a hurricane coming, I still can't control them. Can't control _myself_." He lets out a laugh, one with enough self-hatred in it to make Dean flinch. "Fuck, the only reason why I'm in this position at all is because of an accident. It was never supposed to be me and every time I fuck up, I prove it."

Silence, then, until Ogou smacks Dean and says, "_Don't just sit there_, idyo."

Ogou wants Dean to do something, anything, and Dean would get up, go over to his brother and manhandle Sam into listening, but he knows Sam, right down to the bones. He's been paying attention to everything Sam's said and done since he walked into that San Francisco apartment and found Ati riding Sam hard enough to heat the room they were in. Even before that, Sam's been the centre of his universe, has been since the moment their mother put Sam in his arms and told him to say hi to his new baby brother, told him that Sam was his responsibility.

"This is my fault," Dean says, words so sharp and clear that they hang in the air like diamonds. Sam turns to face him, eyes wide, mouth open, but Dean speaks again before Sam can. "I let you drift from me and dad. I let you go to San Francisco. I let myself be ridden by Marinette. I let you sacrifice yourself to this life just to save my skin. I let you take the brunt of being _poto mitan_ alone for so long, and I still do. If you wanna blame anyone for this, for _any_ of this, blame me."

"That's fucking ridiculous," Sam breathes.

Dean gives Sam a smile sharp with teeth and the promise of blood. "So's what you said." Dean gets up now, eats the space between them with a couple of long, angry strides, and fists his hands in Sam's t-shirt. "Every decision we've made, bad or good, has led us here, Sam," he says. "And what we have now, apart from this loa-damned hurricane coming, is pretty damn good. But it's all extra. It's you and it's me. It's _us_." He lets go of Sam's shirt, pulls Sam close and holds him until Sam's exhaled out tension and has his face turned into the curve of Dean's neck, then all Dean does is hold tighter. "It's always been you and me, Sam," he says. "I thought we were past this."

The response Sam gives is muffled; Dean's going to assume Sam agreed.

"I'm wondering," Dean says lightly, carefully, stepping through the words like they're mines, "if that wasn't what Kita wanted. What Marinette wanted."

Sam stiffens, moves enough to meet Dean's eyes. His face has gone pale and bloodless, and his eyes are pure red. Dean's never seen that except for when Ge-Rouge has completely taken over Sam's body, but it's Sam who hisses and bares his teeth with a snarl, and it's Sam who says, "If she thinks that killing you will clear a space for her, I'll bind her into a horse and gut her myself."

Dean grins, a lazy smile that's full of murderous intent, and says, "I'll hand you the knife."

\--

It takes a while for Sam to beat Ge-Rouge back; he finally succeeds and his knees nearly give way. Dean catches him, helps him back to the bed, and they sit down next to each other, shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip, thigh-to-thigh.

"I think I know why Karrefour did it," Sam says, out of nowhere, right when Dean's about to suggest they go downstairs and make sure the other _konfians kays_ haven't done something stupid while they've been left unsupervised.

"Care to share with the class?" Dean asks.

Sam smiles, a brief smile that disappears almost as quickly as it came. "What the vodouisantes were saying the first night we were here."

Dean's stomach sinks. "Marinette," he says. "You think, what, we may need to let her out?"

"If we did," Sam says, "then this helps. Knowing she tried to use me to kill you, I mean." Sam shakes his head, looks down at his hands. "Karrefour knows what she means to me and he knows what you mean to me. I don't want to let her out. But if I do, it's not --."

It breaks something inside of Dean to see Sam struggle like this, but he gets it, he does. He reaches over, takes one of Sam's hands in his, and clenches tight. "You love her. I know that. I don't like it, but I'm trying to come to terms with it. Letting her out, it's a tough call. You won't want to order her around, or let her out of your sight, or put her back. If it takes me getting a sore throat and a wet ass to help you do what you have to, fine. I just think -- if this is why Karrefour let her out, he could've made his point a better way."

Sam twines their fingers together, strokes his thumb against Dean's skin. "He was just showing me something I need to remember, I guess." Dean makes an enquiring noise and Sam says, "Which of you's more important."

"_The dwarf was there enough to see_," Ogou says, "_that the _djab_ loa didn't close the path 'tween the _poto mitan_ and that sorceress. My _trezò_ pushed her out himself_."

Dean lets that soak in for a moment. Sam pushed Kita away himself, forced her back, when Kita's connected to Marinette, to the one loa that Sam loves more than any other. Dean's seen the way Sam's lingered over Marinette's statue before, knows that Sam's got a soft spot for the vodouisantes who long for Marinette's release, and he thinks that the draw Kita presented must have been nearly insurmountable for Sam to overcome.

But Sam did -- for him.

"You and me," Dean says, knocking his shoulder against Sam's.

Sam knocks back. "Always."

\--

They finally pull themselves together enough that Sam suggests they go downstairs. Dean grumbles and hides a smile when he hears Sam laugh at him, following Sam out of their bedroom and down the stairs. After a detour into the kitchen for tall glasses of sweet tea, they make their way to the front room. The other _konfians kays_ and the _badjikan_ have set up three televisions in the front room, all of them tuned to a different channel. One's playing CNN, which is covering Katrina's Florida landfall interspersed with segments on John Roberts' confirmation hearing and Cindy Sheehan. The Weather Channel is all Katrina, all the time, as is the local channel. Dean can only stand to listen to the local news, and even then, only for five minutes before he mutes that one as well.

"They're not telling us anything new," Dean mutters. "Fuck, can't they tell us something new? And who the hell cares about some chick in Texas, huh?"

Sam comes up to him, puts a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Give it time," he says.

\--

Time comes too quickly. It's not long before the five o'clock news comes on and straight-away goes live to an empty podium where "Governor Blanco and Mayor Nagin are expected to issue voluntary evacuations for the city of New Orleans," the reporter is saying, holding a microphone in front of her face and touching an ear-piece. "We've received no word from the governor's or mayor's office yet about preparations they're making behind the scenes."

"Mayor gave a speech at noon," Marcus says. "Something about maybe calling for a voluntary evac tonight or tomorrow. Guess he decided on doing it tonight."

"Only voluntary, though?" Sam asks, tone sharp as he looks at Marcus.

Marcus shrugs and says, "It does give people from the southern parishes time to get through before everyone here starts leaving."

Dean thinks that sounds like as good a reason as any but Sam's frowning and Dean thinks that maybe Sam's eyes are starting to tinge the faintest bit red around the edges of his irises.

"Plaquemines has mandatory evacuations, so does St. Bernard," Sam says, turning to Doreen. "Did they say anything about the other parishes? Lafourche? Jefferson?"

Doreen doesn't answer. No one does. Dean scans the room, sees everyone's eyes dropping to the floor. He doesn't understand why until he looks at Sam and feels his heart skip a beat. The red has completely taken over Sam's eyes as Sam turns away from the televisions and heads toward the door. Dean gets in Sam's way, puts out one hand, and when Sam doesn't stop, runs into Dean's hand, Dean flinches with the full force of Ge-Rouge battering at him. He remembers the way it felt in Plaquemines, going after the _loup-garou_, the mindless ball of fury that Ge-Rouge _is_, passing through him all at once. This is worse: it's not in him, it's arrayed against him -- and it's not stopping.

"Sam," Dean says, speaking through teeth clenched so tight he's distantly surprised that they haven't cracked yet. "Push her back. _Now_."

"Poto mitan_ tryin'_," Ogou tells Dean. The loa floods through Dean's body, shoring up his defenses enough so that Dean can keep standing there, blocking Sam, even as the other four _konfians kays_ fall to their knees. "_Give 'im a push_," Ogou adds.

Dean fights Ge-Rouge's unending need to tear, to rend, to kill, and takes one step closer to Sam, teeth clenched. He takes a deep breath, tells Ogou, "_I hope you know what you're doing_," and then Dean digs his fingers into Sam's hips and kisses Sam.

It's not their normal kind of kiss, for all that they really don't do 'normal.' Ge-Rouge wants death and blood; Dean's not surprised when his mouth is bleeding a second later, either his lip or his tongue, he's not sure. The pain of it is enough to propel him closer to Sam, bodies pressed tight against one another, and fight back.

He's fucked Karrefour before and this is almost how that loa kisses, full of tearing skin and bones bruising. Karrefour, though, is cunning and always in control of himself, quite often the situation as well. Ge-Rouge just wants blood and Dean can feel her attention get caught on the metallic tang in Dean's mouth. She claws at Dean's arms, wanting flesh under her nails; Dean wants to give as good as he's getting but Ge-Rouge isn't Karrefour and Dean's pretty sure she wouldn't appreciate him fighting back. Instead, he surrenders, giving in to her, letting her scrape and bite him, and then Dean feels her get shoved and locked away.

"Dean, come with me," Sam says. He's using the voice of the _poto mitan_ and when Dean finally meets his brother's eyes, they're clear and circling with loa. "The rest of you, stay put."

Sam stalks past Dean, out of the front room and down the hall to the kitchen. By the time Dean catches up to Sam, Sam's outside in the courtyard, looks furious.

"What's wrong?" Dean asks.

Sam whirls in place, pins narrowed eyes on Dean. "What's wrong?" he echoes. "What's _wrong_? For fuck's sake, Dean!"

Dean narrows his eyes right back at Sam; Ogou is telling him to be careful and to calm down but Dean's not having any of it. "I just asked you a simple question, Sam. Tell me what's wrong."

"If you can't guess, then I can't help you," Sam spits out. He takes his phone out of his pocket and before Dean can stop him, Sam's calling someone. Sam gives Dean one more rage-filled glare, then turns his back on Dean and faces in the direction of Erzulie's statue. "Emilie? Hi, it's Sam. Listen, I know you're probably swamped right now but." He stops talking, clearly listening.

Dean crosses the distance between them and puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezes tight but not painfully tight. Sam tenses at the touch but doesn't otherwise react. Now that Dean's this close, he can hear the girl -- woman -- talking.

"--and she's spittin' furious, Sam, you would _not_ believe," Emilie's saying, talking so fast that Dean's surprised she hasn't had to stop for air yet. "People from the Hurricane Center've been tryin' to get hold of her all day but she hasn't had time to answer; I expect Director Mayfield to start callin' any time. Anyway, they're gonna open the Superdome as a shelter but there's nothing happ'ning, no buses, no transport, nothing. Kathleen's got boats waitin' and she's been on the phone with all kinds of parish folk, but Ray's just not listenin' to a word she's sayin'."

"Thanks for letting me know, Em," Sam says.

She laughs, a high-pitched, nervous sound. "No problem, _poto mitan_. If anything changes, you'll be the first call I make. Okay? Hang in there."

Sam hangs up, puts his phone back in his pocket. He's still tense, standing with his back to Dean, clearly expecting to pick up their argument where they left off.

"She called before," Dean says. "Emilie. Who is she?"

"One of the governor's staffers," Sam replies. "She works in Baton Rouge. Not high enough in the system to be of much use to us day-to-day but times like these, she keeps us up to date."

Dean hums, asks, "One of ours?"

Sam's head turns, just the slightest bit. "Not exactly," he says. "It's complicated."

"What happened earlier, Sam?" Dean asks, deciding not to push on the subject of Emilie -- at least for now. "It seems like Ge-Rouge has her hooks in you more than she usually does, and that? That's not a good thing."

"I'm just so _angry_," Sam says, after a long moment of silence that had Dean almost convinced that Sam wasn't going to answer. "She's a face of Erzulie; having Danny ride me all the time, it's like an open line right to Ge-Rouge's feet. She knows, so she comes when I give her an opening. It's. Politics, right? These politicians don't want to cooperate with each other and Bondye only knows what's going to happen."

Dean takes that in, thinks about it. Ge-Rouge following the trail of Sam's anger, yeah, Dean can see how that must taste pretty good to the giant mass of vengeful murder that Ge-Rouge embodies. Politics, though. That's never been Dean's strong suit. Sam's always been much better at deciphering undercurrents and hidden motives which has Dean inclined to believe his brother's reading of the situation.

"I want to kill Doreen," Dean says, once he's digested Sam's words, rolled them over in his mind and gotten Ogou's approval on his conclusions.

Sam turns at that, looks at Dean with wide, bloodshot eyes and tear-tracks drying on his cheeks. "What?"

Dean reaches up, wipes at Sam's cheeks with his thumb. "She didn't answer you, even with the signs of Ge-Rouge's bridle on you," he says evenly. "Ogou thinks that she wanted to run when Ge-Rouge mounted you completely. We're not impressed with her. She doesn't deserve to be alive, much less one of our _konfians kays_."

"I want this to be over," Sam mutters, and rests his forehead on Dean's shoulder. "Ayizan bless, I want this to be _over_."

"I know," Dean says, and he wraps his arms around Sam, holds Sam tight. He wants nothing more -- right now and always -- than to protect Sam from the world. "Me too."

\--

The _badjikan_ runs interference for them the rest of the evening. He answers the phone when it rings, keeps the other _konfians kays_ from coming into the kitchen, and makes sure that Sam and Dean are left alone. Dean's not sure if the _badjikan_ decided to do all of this on his own or if the message was passed to him by Erzulie, but either way, Dean's damn appreciative.

It gives him the chance to sit with Sam in the courtyard, drinking beer and picking at red beans and rice from the freezer. The radio's resting on the kitchen window ledge, tuned to WWL, and Dean's waiting for Garland Robinette to come on air. It's quiet right now and the air's free of loa: no traces of Ge-Rouge or Karrefour or Danny. Dean hates to break the silence, interrupt the stillness, but Sam's looking restless as he sits across the courtyard between the statues of Lakwa and Maman Brigitte.

"What?" Dean asks, finally, when he can't take it any longer. Sam looks at Dean, eyebrow raised in question, and Dean tilts his chin, says, "Something's the matter, judging by the way you can't sit still. What is it?"

Sam's lips curve up in acknowledgment and he leans to the side, lets the base of Lakwa's statue hold him up. "I've been thinking."

Dean snorts, says, "Dude, like you could go for two minutes without that geek brain turning something over."

"Shut up," Sam says, mildly, but he's fighting back a smile.

Dean's blood thrums in pleasure at seeing that smile, a thrum that turns to a clarion call of triumph when Sam takes a giant bite of his red beans and rice. Sam might've eaten last night, had a sandwich this afternoon, but Dean can tell that his brother's lost a few pounds even over the last few days. It may have started before that, back when Katrina was a hundred miles off the coast of Haiti, but it's noticeable now, Sam pushing food around his plate or skipping meals entirely. Now, every bite of food that Sam eats feels like a hard-won victory.

He waits until Sam's shovelled in a couple more bites of food and washed it down with a swig of what has to be warm, flat beer by this point, then Dean asks, "So, you were thinking?"

"Doreen," Sam says. His eyes go distant -- not with loa, Dean thinks, but something else, maybe memories. "I've been trying to figure out what's happened. Her and Penny both, really. I talked to Doreen two weeks ago and she wasn't like this then. At least, if she was, she hid it well enough to hide it from all of us."

"What's happened in the last two weeks, then?" Dean asks, then says, "The boundary wards. That's the biggest thing, right? Could that be it?"

Sam absently takes another sip of his beer, then grips the neck of the bottle, lets it hang from between two fingers, wrist resting on his propped-up knee. "The boundary wards only outline territory," Sam says, slow and thoughtful. "But it's possible. I know I've had trouble controlling the number of loa in this city; it may have had an effect on some of the more powerful _konfians kays_. But you're fine," Sam says, and his eyes fix on Dean, sharpen. "So are most of the others. I don't think that's it."

Dean narrows his eyes, staring back at Sam. "You have an idea, don't you," he says, definitely not a question or an invitation for Sam to share. This is a clear command and Ogou's riding his voice as well, just as determined to find out what the _poto mitan_ is guessing at.

"Biloxi, Charleston, Nashville," Sam says, "and Memphis, a little. Seems like maybe it's a -- a wind or wave or something, originating somewhere and working its way outwards."

"Atlanta," Dean says. It's the biggest city in the middle of the four Sam named, and Marcus, Petro _konfians kay_ of Memphis, hasn't been as vocal as Penny or Doreen. "Or Birmingham." Sam hums in what Dean assumes is agreement. "Do we have people there? Anyone we could ask, see if they're seeing the same things?"

Sam shakes his head. "Birmingham was claimed by a _sosyete_ decades ago," he says, "and we try to respect their area. Mobile's our biggest city in Alabama."

That seems strange to Dean, strikes a wrong chord in his mind. It takes a minute to figure out why, but then he's saying, "We've never stopped in Mobile. Driven through it but never visited. And we haven't heard anything from them about Katrina, even when it was projected to hit there or Pensacola."

"Mobile is not somewhere we need to worry about," Sam says.

It's not quite the tone of the _poto mitan_, so Dean feels safe enough pressing, asks, "Why not?" even though Ogou's urging caution.

Sam looks at Dean, strange light in his eyes. "Mobile is one of the older cities that belong to us in this country," he says. "The first were in Plaquemines, but after that, Mobile always had our people moving through it. Vodouisantes don't run that city, Dean; the loa do."

Dean's skin crawls at the thought. "Which loa?" he asks. "And who do they answer to, if there isn't a _konfians kay_?"

"Agoueh and Simbe alongside la Sirene and Ayizan," Sam replies. "And who do you _think_ they answer to? They answer to me, Dean."

Dean thinks about all those times he's seen loa come and go, all the times that he thinks Sam's talking to Danny or Ti-Jean or Karrefour, all those times Sam's slept as they drove through Mobile, a sleep so deep that Dean wondered, once or twice, if his brother had died. Of course Sam can sleep there; he feels safe.

"But Mobile's not your city," Dean says. "If the loa in Mobile answer to you, doesn't that make Mobile your city?"

Sam grins, says, "Dean. _All_ the loa answer to me."

Dean exhales roughly, resists the urge to crawl over and punch Sam. "That's not what I meant and you know it, Sam."

The grin fades from Sam's lips though he doesn't look upset. "Fair enough," he says, nodding once to cede Dean the point. "The loa rule Mobile; they keep me informed but as long as everyone behaves, it's better to follow the traditions that've worked for, I dunno, close to three hundred years. The loa ride whichever horses they feel like in ceremony, they lay down the laws, and they keep an eye on the vodouisantes to make sure they obey. But they've _always_ obeyed." Sam pauses, adds after a moment, "The vodouisantes there are kept on a very short leash. It takes a certain type of person to like that, to work within that. If they can't handle the reins or the bit or the blinders, they leave."

"And the people that stay," Dean says, "don't mind the spurs."

"Some of them even like it," Sam says.

The tone of Sam's voice is so matter-of-fact, with just a hint of longing underneath, that Dean's taken aback, flustered by the information he just received. Mobile is run so differently from what he's experienced: Rada and Petro _konfians kays_ working together to rule a city, keeping their respective people in line, bringing sensitives carefully into the religion. He delves into Mathieu's _konesan_, tries to get a feel for what the old man knew, but it's not as much as Dean expected, with how close Mobile is to New Orleans.

"This is a secret?" Dean asks.

Sam shrugs one shoulder. "Not so much a secret as just not general knowledge," he says. "From time to time, the loa will choose a person to serve as their face when others visit or a representative from the city needs to be at a meeting elsewhere. It saves time, spares questions."

Dean decides that he's not going to be able to accept everything he's just heard, not without thought and sleep and a conversation with Ogou. He shakes his head lightly, as if to wipe his mind clean, and says, "Okay, then. We don't need to worry about Mobile. You have a guess where the wind or wave or whatever might go next?"

"Charlotte," Sam says. "Or Louisville. But probably Charlotte. "

"You don't think it'd be here?" Dean asks. "Sam, if it could take Penny."

Sam smiles, one of those cold, deadly smiles that Dean hates, that sends shivers racing up and down Dean's spine and dries his mouth to stop him from talking. "New Orleans," Sam says, "has a hurricane to worry about. Nothing else. Betsy should've been strong enough to fight it off, but there is no way in hell that whatever this is could take down you or Colette."

Dean waits, swallows a few times, trying to give his throat moisture to speak with. "I've never met her," he says. "Colette, I mean. What's she like?"

"You should go tomorrow," Sam says. "Take the Impala up to hers to ride out the storm. You can meet her then."

It's the last thing Sam says that night.


	8. Sunday, August 28, 2005 - Part One

"_When this is done_," Dean tells Ogou, before he even opens his eyes, "_I'm going to sleep until noon every day for a _month_. Christ, these early mornings are killer. How's Sam still going?_"

"_Coffee and fear_," Ogou says, dryly. "_How _you_ going_?"

Dean snorts, rolls over, and nearly falls out of bed, tangled in the sheets. "_Shut up_."

\--

A full spread of food's laid out on the kitchen counter when Dean finally stumbles downstairs, the impromptu buffet under attack by a dozen or so people crammed into the small space. Even though Sam's nowhere in sight, Dean can smell a trace of Danny's perfume and Karrefour's lightning. Sam must be close enough, still in the house. Dean fills up a plate, starving like he hasn't eaten in four days.

He keeps his nose on Sam and one ear on the nonsense Ogou's muttering about, the majority of his attention fixed on his plate. As he eats, the kitchen starts to empty of people, a slow, casual exodus that Dean doesn't notice until he turns to the table and the only person left is Emil.

Emil, laughing as Dean blinks in surprise, says, "This morning it's respect and not fear," as he stands up from the table as well. "Y'look tired, _papalwa_. We'll take our noise to the front room and keep an eye on the TVs. If anything comes up, I'll let you know."

Feeling a bit blindsided, Dean merely nods his acceptance and fixes a second plate of food before sitting down and asking, "Seen Sam lately? I know he's around somewhere, but where?"

"Downstairs," Emil says, though it's clear he thought about asking just how Dean knew Sam was nearby, judging from the way he's narrowed his eyes and tilted his head in curiosity. "Not sure what he's doing but he said he wasn't to be disturbed."

Dean raises an eyebrow at that but Emil doesn't flinch at the look, just holds his ground and holds Dean's eyes. Dean finally sighs, says, "Okay, fine," in a tone of voice that's more grumble than anything else.

It makes Emil smile, though, out of amusement and relief both, Dean guesses, and the man disappears out of the kitchen and down the hall, leaving Dean to eat in peace.

\--

He's almost done with his third cup of coffee when he smells blood and metal wafting through the air. Dean's been sitting with his back to the wall; all he has to do is turn his head to watch as Sam emerges from the closet under the steps. Sam meets his gaze unerringly and Dean feels a chill go down his spine and right to his dick when he sees the cruel satisfaction of Karrefour lurking in Sam's eyes.

It's not the loa, it's Sam, but this is the closest Sam's ever been to Karrefour without being ridden and it makes Dean hard in his jeans and more than a little wary, watching Sam walk into the kitchen with Karrefour's seductive violence in every movement.

"Everything okay?" Dean asks.

Sam gives Dean a dark smile and says, "It will be," as Karrefour leaves, slowly. "Got any coffee left?"

Dean nods his head at the counter, says, "I could do with a refill," and holds out his mug. It's half a test to see what Sam's mood is, whether he'll pull the little brother rolled-eyes routine or not, and Dean's thrown more than a little off-balance as Sam takes the mug without a word and goes over to the counter.

"_Should I be worried_?" he asks Ogou. "'_Cause I don't think Sam's ever done that before. Like, _ever."

"No need to worry," Sam says. He hands Dean the mug and their fingers slide against each other; Dean doesn't feel the shock of the loa. This is all Sam, now. "I asked Karrefour to search the crossroads for any clue to what's happening with the _konfians kays_. From what he's found so far and what Ati's said, it's mostly aimed at the Rada. Marcus and Doreen, they have exceptionally close relationships with their Rada counterparts, much closer than Betsy and Brigitte. That might explain some of it."

Sam stops there but it's clear -- at least to Dean and Ogou -- that there's something else Sam isn't saying. "_Do we push or let it go_?" Dean asks Ogou.

"Ati thinks it started in Raleigh, with Larry and Gina," Sam says, answering before the loa even takes a breath to speak. "Ati's never liked them and I can't say I have either, but I thought it was just Ati's opinion bleeding through. Danny assured me it's not."

It takes Dean a second to place the names, but then it hits: Larry, in that bar in Chicago, and the petitioning after, when Sam banned the loa from riding anyone in Chicago. "They really are from Raleigh, not Chicago?" Dean asks.

"Originally from San Francisco," Sam says. "They were there the first night I was ridden. Ati thinks maybe that's when this whole thing started building but they waited to see what I'd do with Marinette and then how I'd deal with Dennis once she acted out. The timing now, when we're focused on other things? Plays right into their hands."

"So they waited for Marinette to kill you," Dean says. The food he's eaten is sitting heavily in his stomach; he wishes he hadn't had seconds. "Or for Dennis to release Marinette and distract you enough to take control. Shit. So what's their endgame? You and Ati figure out why they're doing whatever they're doing?"

Sam sits down across from Dean, his own mug of coffee held tight between his hands. The coffee is still steaming; the ceramic must be hot but Sam doesn't show any sign of noticing."That's what we can't figure out. We're still not sure if they're responsible for whatever's going on or if they're just involved. But either way, Karrefour and I have scouted out the vodouisantes in Raleigh and the next time they do a ceremony, he'll mount a horse and ask some questions."

Dean would hate to be the person playing horse to Karrefour's bridle; the loa of the night crossroads even rides Sam hard, and the two of them get along. "So are we shelving the issue until after Katrina blows through?" Dean asks. "Not sure I like the sound of that, Sam, if I'm being honest." After a prodding from his loa, Dean adds, "Neither does Ogou."

"We can't do anything now," Sam points out, far too logically for Dean's taste. "We're stuck in New Orleans at least the next few days. And I don't want to ban the loa from them before I know for sure what's happening. Until we can find out, or until Karrefour or Ati bring back some answers, this is the best I can do." He pauses, adds, "And we need to talk to the guédé."

"Why?" Dean asks. He knows Lakwa -- not like Sam, and not like one of Samedi's horses, but the loa's never steered Dean wrong, never done anything against Sam, even helped when Sam was too mind-blind to help himself.

Sam lets out a deep breath. "In Chicago, at the petitioning. The guédé family that were there, that I cut off from the loa? They belonged to Bakulu. And the _ouanga_ at the park, that was Bakulu's vévé. We've been so focused on the Rada that it's possible -- I don't know. I don't know what's possible anymore."

"Well, until we can do something," Dean says, "send Nick or Phil to Raleigh. Or send someone all three of you trust. I'd feel better if we had eyes on them immediately."

Sam nods, slowly, and says, "I hadn't thought of that. It's a good idea. Rada so they don't get spooked, maybe someone unassuming. Huh." Dean asks just what that 'huh' is supposed to mean and Sam grins at him, says, "Just -- maybe you're better at this than you thought you'd be."

Dean kicks Sam's shin under the table and ends up getting coffee up his nose when Sam kicks him back just as he's taking a sip from his mug. Dean sputters and wipes off his nose on his arm; it's a small price to pay for the laugh that rings out of Sam, rich and deep and true.

\--

It's not much longer before Emil comes careening up the hallway, slides into the kitchen in his socks. "Y'all're gonna wanna see this," he says. "Mayor and governor are getting ready to speak."

Sam looks at Dean as they both stand up and move for the televisions set up in the front room. The room's empty, apart from them and Emil, and they get there just in time to see Mayor Nagin step forward towards the microphone and look out over what must be a giant crowd of cameras and reporters.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he begins, and the tone of his voice makes Dean's heart skip a beat. "I wish I had better news for you. But we're facing the storm most of us have feared. I do not want to create panic. But I do want the citizens to understand that this is very serious, and it's of the highest nature. And that's why we are taking this unprecedented move."

"Mandatory evacuations," Sam murmurs. "They're finally doing it."

Dean frowns, says, "The fucking storm's supposed to be here in less than twenty-four hours. This is ridiculous."

Emil, standing on the other side of Sam, looks over at Dean and smiles, but there's nothing happy about that smile, simply resignation and bitterness. "Welcome to New Orleans," he says.

"Is there going to be enough time to get everyone out?" Dean asks, though he's not sure who he's asking or how they're supposed to have an answer. On the television, Nagin is stepping back from the podium and Governor Blanco is taking his place. She adjusts the microphone, takes a deep breath. She looks wrecked, pale and ashen, and Dean can't help but think she knows something.

"I want to reiterate what the mayor has said," she says, no preamble. "This is a very dangerous time. Just before we walked into this room, President Bush called and told me to share with all of you that he is very concerned about the citizens. He is concerned about the impact that this hurricane would have on our people. And he asked me to please ensure that there would be a mandatory evacuation of New Orleans."

Emil mutes the television and turns sideways, facing Sam and Dean. "Mandatory evacs," he says. "Are we staying here?"

Sam's jaw clenches. "Yes," he says. "We've made our plans. Mandatory or not, they won't be able to force us to leave." He pauses, studies the television screen, and adds, quietly, "I have a feeling quite a few people will stay."

Dean gets chills, hearing that tone of voice; nothing good has ever happened when Sam talks in that tone. He waits and when it's clear that Sam's not going to say anything else, Dean turns to Emil. "You should get home," he says. "Check in with Rita. There's probably a lot more you could be doing than babysitting us." Emil looks like he's about to argue; Dean narrows his eyes and says, "We're fine, Emil. Go home and see how your sister's holding up."

Emil holds Dean's gaze and finally nods, though he looks to Sam for confirmation of Dean's words. Dean growls at the slight but Sam rests fingertips on his arms and, when Dean looks at him, shakes his head in silent rebuke. Lip curled, Dean steps back, arms crossed on his chest.

"As you say, _papalwa_," Emil says to Dean. "Call if you need anything. _Anything_."

"We will," Dean says.

Emil leaves, closes the door behind him; the only noise in the room, apart from their breathing, is the sound of the television, volume down low but still full of bad news getting worse.

"You shouldn't get upset that he looks to me," Sam says.

"He's one of mine," Dean snarls back. "He shouldn't look to you. He should trust _me_. I'm his _konfians kay_."

Sam holds Dean's gaze, loa fluttering in the back of his eyes, and eventually says, "I'm sorry." Dean blinks, all anger gone, as Sam adds, "You're right. He's one of yours. He answers to you."

Dean doesn't want to admit it, but that apology rattles him. It's not that Sam's saying sorry, he does that sometimes, occasionally more often that Dean thinks is absolutely necessary. It's the tone of voice, the look in his eyes, buoyed up by loa and the faintest red traces showing up on Ti-Jean's vévé.

Ti-Jean. Of course.

"Sam," Dean says.

"No," Sam says, cutting Dean off. "Just -- please leave it, Dean. You were right, I was wrong, end of story."

Dean raises an eyebrow as Sam sits down, practically collapsing onto the couch, leaning forward and hiding his face in his hands. "Not the end of the story," Dean murmurs, sitting next to Sam, pulling Sam close. "And I'll leave it alone, for now, once I say this: Emil's one of mine. But I'm yours. We're all yours, in the end. I may not always appreciate you overruling me but it's your right, Sam, and I know you won't do it without a good reason. Okay? Okay. That's all. I'm done."

Sam curls in tight to Dean and finally, just loud enough for Dean to hear, Sam says, "Okay."

\--

They stay in the front room, Dean keeping an eye on the TV as Sam calls Nick in Detroit, first, and then Phil in St. Louis. Sam's conversations are quick, to-the-point, and when he hangs up from the second call, Sam lets out a breath and says, "It's done. They'll both be sending one or two people in the next few days. They'll call Gina this afternoon, make overtures."

"How are their acting skills?" Dean asks. There are footsteps on the stairs; Dean hopes it's not Doreen or he's liable to fucking kill her.

Sam grins at him, a quick and fleeting smile, and says, "Better than yours," as Tony comes in.

"The _badjikan_ said something about leftovers and hash," Tony says. "I'm not sure I want to know but I thought I'd pass the message on just in case you hadn't eaten enough at breakfast."

"We're good," Dean says.

Sam nods, says, "We're good. Join us, I want to ask you something." Tony looks puzzled but game, taking a seat in one of the armchairs by the doorway. "Have you noticed or has Phil said anything to you about any of the _konfians kays_ acting strangely?"

Tony's gaze sharpens and he leans forward in his chair. "This isn't an idle question, is it, _poto mitan_," he says.

"Your honest opinion," Sam says.

"Recently?" Tony says. "Yeah. But before we all came down here? Not so much. I thought maybe it was just the clashes from having so many horses and riders in one place. It's never been this crowded anywhere in our history; I wasn't sure if it was just a side effect from that."

Dean cocks his head, says, "You weren't sure. But now you are?"

Tony lets out a deep sigh and settles back into his chair. "I don't want to be," he says, "but yes. For a couple days I could justify it as an imbalance with the wards being down; loa know I was reeling after you peeled down the fences. But something's happening. I don't know what, but something, and it makes me uneasy." He stops, shakes his head, as if he has no more words.

"Let me know if you reach any conclusions," Sam says, though it's more an order, especially when Tony inclines his head, eyes dropping to the ground for a moment.

\--

The three of them sit in silence, watching the TV with the closed captioning on, until one of Dean's Petro vodouisantes brings them the latest report from NOAA. Sam reads it and Dean watches his brother; Sam's jaw clenches, he turns pale, his hands start shaking. Dean rips the paper out of Sam's hands the second Sam stands up.

_...DEVASTATING DAMAGE EXPECTED_ Dean reads. He swallows, looks up at Sam who has stood up, walked to the window. _HURRICANE KATRINA...A MOST POWERFUL HURRICANE WITH UNPRECEDENTED STRENGTH...RIVALING THE INTENSITY OF HURRICANE CAMILLE OF 1969._

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," he mutters. "As bad as _Camille_? No way. No fucking way." Dean wasn't alive for Camille but he knows plenty of people who were and has the memories of a man who lived through it in his head. There's _no way_ this will be on the same level.

His eyes flick up and over to the vodouisante, Lilah, he thinks, who nods back at the paper as if to tell Dean to keep reading. Dean glances at his brother, sees Sam staring out of the window, head cocked and the vévé for Karrefour dripping blood onto the floor. Chills run up and down Dean's spine, half from seeing his brother like that, half from the paper in his hands. His eyes drop back to the release almost against his will.

_MOST OF THE AREA WILL BE UNINHABITABLE FOR WEEKS...PERHAPS LONGER._

"It's not going to be that bad," Dean says, eyes caught on that sentence, unable to keep reading. He might sound more convincing if his voice wasn't shaking. "I mean, this doesn't even sound like something the NWS would put out." He pauses there, reads that line again, and shakes his head. "Does it?"

"Even if Katrina hits the city head-on, we should be okay," Tony says, though he hasn't read the release, hasn't laid his eyes on _DEVASTATING DAMAGE_ and _UNINHABITABLE_ the way Dean has. "The Quarter's the highest point in the city; there's a reason people built here first."

Sam snaps, "It's not us I'm worried about."

Tony blanches at the vitriol in Sam's voice. Dean clears his throat and when Tony looks in his direction, Dean tilts his head at the door. Tony doesn't wait at all before following the unspoken command and getting the hell away from Sam. Lilah goes too but not as fast; Dean's irrationally proud of her.

"I'm not worried about us," Sam says again, quietly, once the door's closed behind Lilah. "I should be, I know. But we'll be fine. We always are. There are so many people here, though, that."

Sam trails off. Dean stands up, walks over to Sam and squeezes Sam's shoulder, ignoring the drops of blood under his feet. "That's why we came back," Dean says. "And even." He has to stop, choking on the words in his throat. "Even if the city doesn't make it, we will. And we'll be here for -- for everyone."

"What if we're not enough?" Sam asks, in words so soft that they don't even count as whispers. "You said this would be enough to break the city. We can't hold that back."

Dean pulls Sam close, wraps his brother up tight and holds on for dear life. "Then we'll put it back together."

\--

They go into the kitchen, leave the front room with its televisions and worsening news behind them, as if not seeing how things are going will negate them entirely. Dean drinks coffee like it's going out of style, keeps hoping that the caffeine will eventually kick in and give him energy, make him feel better, as if he can actually _do_ something. Sam is steadily working his way through a bottle of Jack but it looks like the alcohol's burning off faster than it can do anything; Sam still looks miserable, still looks knocked for a loop from that NOAA report.

A knock on the front door at eleven thirty has Sam groaning.

"I'll get it," Dean says.

Sam kicks out his foot, hooks his toes around Dean's shin. "Let someone else do it," Sam says. "Please."

Dean can't argue with Sam on a good day; today is nowhere near a good day, not with Sam looking like death warmed over, not with Dean so exhausted that he can barely see straight even after the eight cups of coffee he's already had and the words of that NOAA release circling in his head along with a restless Ogou.

They both wait, tense, listening as someone -- the _badjikan_, maybe, or LaJane -- clatters down the steps and goes to the front door. There's the faint impression of voices but Dean can't pick out who might be at their doorstep and it doesn't look like Sam can, either.

A moment later, there are footsteps echoing down the hall; Sam puts his head down on the table and mutters a curse under his breath.

"Someone at the door for you, _papalwa_," the _badjikan_ says. Sam lifts his head at that, looks at the _badjikan_ and then at Dean.

Dean shrugs, guesses it's probably Rita or Emil, and gets up. As he walks past Sam, he lets his hand glide across the breadth of Sam's shoulders. They're tense beneath his palm, tense and tight, feel painful even from Dean's passing touch.

He swears and Ogou mutters, "_Over soon 'nough, _cheval_. Take 'im to Savannah after the 'cane blows through and keep 'im in bed for a week._"

"_If it's as bad as Sam and Simbe think, we won't be leaving for a while_," Dean reminds the loa.

"_Then just take 'im upstairs and fuck 'im 'til he passes out_," Ogou snaps back.

It's not a bad suggestion, though all thoughts of Sam and sex flee Dean's mind when he sees who's at the door.

"Can I come in?" Rose asks. She's got one eyebrow raised in question but Dean ignores it. He can't believe she's here and he can't stop staring at her, like maybe she's an apparition or he's seeing things, imagining things.

Dean blinks but he steps to one side and she walks past, smelling like rum and the tail edges of a large bonfire. "What the fuck are you even _doing_ here?" he asks, can't stop himself. "They've got mandatory evacs going. You should be hightailing it out of New Orleans, Rose."

"Where'm I gonna go?" Rose says, a self-deprecating smile playing around her mouth as she turns and looks at Dean. "I don't got nowhere to evacuate _to_. My family's here, my friends are here. I can't leave."

"We could," Dean starts to say, and he shakes his head, words tumbling over each other. "We know people, we could, I'm heading up to Kenner in a couple hours to drop off the car. I could get you set up with our people there, or get you on a bus to Baton Rouge, something."

Rose's smile turns gentle and she pats Dean on the shoulder. "You're a soft touch for one of Ogou's. Fuck it, Dean. I'll be fine. I'll ride out the storm in the Superdome; I'm prepared enough for that."

Dean looks at the bag she's got over her shoulder and says, weakly, "Kate?"

"Bitch is just waiting for the official announcement," Rose says. "She's gonna meet me there, we've got a plan. Aw, Dean, don't look at me like that," she goes on. "It's all right. I've done this before, you know? I'm not gonna lie and say it's a picnic, 'cause it sure as hell ain't, but we'll be fine. Overnight in the Superdome, home by tomorrow."

"Rose," Dean says, feeling at something of a loss. "The loa, they said it's going to be bad. Why won't you leave?"

Rose shrugs, gives Dean a tight smile. "I know my place ain't much," she says, "But it's _mine_. Hell, if it wasn't for Kate, I'd probably just wait it out at home. A lot of my neighbours are. 'Sides, even the government must think it's not gonna be too bad. They said they were gonna be sending out buses but none of them ever showed. Naw, Dean, we'll be fine. I just came to tell you that's where Kate and I'll be, and to tell you and Sam to stay safe. Quarter's high ground but still."

Dean stares, can't help it. Rose meets his eyes, lifts her chin in a subtle show of pride and stubbornness that Dean can't help but respect a little. "Save your phone battery," he tells her. "If you need us, either of us, call, okay? We'll figure something out. And Bondye's sake, take care of yourselves, all right?"

It's not enough but it's all Rose will accept, and she does so with a firm nod and a quick hug, ghost of a kiss pressed against Dean's cheek. "All respect to your loa but we'll be fine, Dean," she says. "You'll see."

She leaves, sauntering out of the house and heading towards Canal and the Superdome as the door closes, shutting her out.

"God _damn_ it," Dean breathes, and resists the urge to chase Rose and bring her back over his shoulder, lock her up and keep her safe. It'd be for her own good, he knows that, _knows_ it, but he's not about to take away another person's choice, no matter how stupid it is.

He goes back to the kitchen, sees that Sam's polished off the Jack they'd been drinking. Dean heads for the liquor cabinet and takes out a bottle of bourbon; as soon as he gets the lid off, he tells Sam, "That was Rose. She's heading to the Superdome to ride out the storm with Kate," and takes a long, deep swallow.

A moment later, Sam gets up, walks over, and reaches for the bottle. Dean hands it to Sam and the two of them trade it back and forth, both of them taking long pulls rather than quick sips, volume of the alcohol decreasing fast.

"What're we gonna do?" Dean asks.

"Whatever we can," Sam answers. "Anything and everything we can, just as long as we don't endanger our people in the process."

Dean swallows past the burn in his throat and asks, "Isn't that their choice? If they want to sacrifice themselves for someone else, for their city, isn't it their choice?"

Sam looks at Dean, eyes free of loa, and says, clearly, "I will not lose any more of my people than I already have, not if I can help it."

"And if you _can't_ help it?" Dean asks, pushing.

Sam lets out a deep breath, looks down at the floor. "You said it, Dean: you're all mine."

It's not reasonable, it's not a good position to be in, not with a hurricane coming, but Dean understands where Sam's coming from -- understands but doesn't like, not one bit. "We'll do our best," he says, "but Sam. We won't be able to save everyone. As bad as NOAA makes this sound, as bad as the loa think it's going to be, Sam, I -- I don't like this any more than you do but we're going to lose people."

Ti-Jean's vévé, already inflamed, bursts open as Sam meets Dean's eyes and says, "I will not let this city die."

"_One _sevitye_, ten, a hundred,_" Ogou says, "_are not the city_."

Sam bares his teeth but doesn't disagree, though his shoulders are tight.


	9. Sunday, August 28, 2005 - Part Two

Dean's reluctant to leave Sam on a normal day; right now, with the storm coming and Sam in this mood, Dean hates the thought of going out for a while. Still, Sam suggested it and Dean has to move the car before it's too late. "I think I'll take the car over to Colette's," Dean says, then adds, "if you still think that's a good idea."

Sam looks up from the newspaper he's been absently flipping through to give his hands something to do and lays a considering look on Dean, eventually nodding. He rips off a corner of the newspaper page he's on, jots down an address and hands it to Dean. "Take your time," he says. "I'm not going anywhere."

Dean leans down, presses a kiss to the top of Sam's head, and leaves. He sees a Petro vodouisante loitering on the corner of Dauphine and Conti, jerks his head and waits for the vodouisante, Mike, Dean thinks, to come over.

Mike jogs to Dean, a slow and easy lope that looks like it could last long enough to eat up the miles, and nods when he gets close. "_Papalwa_," he says. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm going to go and visit the Rada _konfians kay_ for a couple hours," Dean says, no wasted words, not when he's already aching to get back to Sam. "The _poto mitan_ said he'll stay in the Dauphine house, but I'd like it if you or one of ours kept an eye on it."

"On it or on him?" Mike asks. Before Dean can reply, Mike holds up his hands, says, "No offense, _papalwa_. Just a joke. I'll make sure he's safe, personally."

Dean says thanks, adds, "Funny joke, by the way. Truer than you think," and heads for Rampart as Mike stares after him.

\--

Dean pulls into a driveway then checks the house's address with the torn-off piece of paper in his hands. They match, so he makes sure the Impala's windows are sealed tightly and the other doors are closed before he turns her off and takes the keys out of the ignition.

"Just a day or two," he murmurs, stroking the steering wheel. "They'll take care of you while the storm's here, then I'll come get you."

He gets out, closes and locks the door behind him, and walks up to the house. He's halfway up the path when the front door opens. Dean squints, sees a woman waiting there, leaning against the door, one hand raised.

"You Dean?" she asks.

"Dean Winchester," he says, once he's made it to the doorstep. "Petro _konfians kay_ of New Orleans. Thanks for looking after the car."

She smiles, and offers her hand to Dean. He takes it and she says, "Colette," shaking Dean's hand firmly. "Rada _konfians kay_ of New Orleans."

Dean looks his counterpart over with interest. He's heard the name before, of course, but he's never had a chance to meet her. She wasn't one of the Rada that Sam sat in judgment over after that whole thing with Dennis, which gives her a point in Dean's book for not being involved in that shitstorm. Still, he's curious, because the New Orleans Rada can't have been happy with a newcomer taking over.

She looks nice, friendly; there are laugh lines leading out from her mouth and crinkles around her eyes when she smiles. She's older than Dean, late thirties or early forties, and her headwrap is bright yellow and green, just as cheerful as she looks. Her hair's in tiny braids that reach down to the curve of her hips, matching yellow and green beads at the bottom, and the white tank-top and pale jean shorts look twice as bright against her dark skin.

"Nice to meet you," Dean says, and he mostly means it. "Where'd you come from?"

Colette smiles at him and moves to the side, inviting Dean inside. He goes, taking in the white walls, the tasteful blue and sea-green accents, the scent of saltwater and fresh ocean breezes that he's relatively sure didn't come from a candle.

"Haiti," she says, following him down the hallway until it opens up into a kitchen that's spacious and airy and filled with a handful of people, all of whom freeze and stare at Dean when they see him.

Dean glances them over, dismisses them, and turns back to Colette, raising an eyebrow. "Haiti? You just, what, up and moved here and became head of it all?"

"Something like that," she says, shrugging one shoulder. "Sam called, asked if I would come and take over. What else was I going to do?" For being a Rada, Colette's got a bit of fire in her. Dean likes that, and likes the way she obviously respects Sam. She seems to guess that Dean's given her some sort of conditional approval; she smiles at him and says, "Let me introduce you to the others."

\--

There are six other Rada in the house; they let Colette name them and then flee, maybe for upstairs, Dean's not sure. Just about the time the noise of their stampede dies down, a different person enters the kitchen, one Dean recognises.

"_Ayah_," Ogou says. "_One o' ours._"

Dean can't remember the name but Ogou does, just in time for Dean to say, "Jake, man, it's good to see you."

"_Papalwa_," Jake says, nodding his head at Dean. "Hope you don't mind; the _mamalwa_ sent me out here to keep an eye on things. Not," he adds hurriedly, looking at Colette, "that anyone here needs it. Just in case, to, uh, help out."

Dean bites back a smile but he's pretty sure Colette caught him. "Don't mind at all," he says. "I'm glad Rita thought of it."

Jake smiles nervously, eyes flicking between Dean and Colette, and it's not long before he says, "I'll leave you to it, _konfians kay_, _papalwa_." He disappears before Dean can say goodbye.

"Twitchy," Dean comments, once he's sure that Jake's far enough away to not hear him. "That because of you or because of me?"

"Me, mostly," Colette says. "Though I'm sure you being here doesn't help much."

It seems strange that one of the Petro-ridden would be so nervous around a Rada horse, even one that's in charge of New Orleans, but Ogou says, "_'S a reason for e'rything_, idyo."

Dean swats at Ogou and says, "Mind telling me why one of mine is here even though he's terrified of you?"

"I would assume because he was told to be here," Colette says. Dean gives her a _look_ and she laughs. "Have a seat, Dean, and I'll answer whatever questions I can," she says, gesturing at the large table.

He should really be getting back to Sam, but Dean's curious and Sam said not to hurry, look in his eyes like he knew something, so Dean sits at the table and sips a bottled soft drink Colette brings him. He's never had this before, Cola Couronne, and he eyes the label. Colette sets a plate of -- something down before she sits across from him. Dean picks up a piece and studies it for a minute; it looks like some kind of brittle. With no small amount of trepidation, and with Colette's eyes fixed on him, Dean takes a bite.

Dean's never tasted anything like this before, but Ogou has. The loa hums approval and says, "_The girl, she know what she be doing, all right. I ain't had _tablet cocoye_ like this in a _long_ while_."

"I'll give you some to take back to Sam," Colette says, once Dean's finished his piece and washed the sticky-sweet taste of coconut down with a few sips of cola. "As well as a few bottles. I should have sent some with Manuel on Friday but I completely forgot."

Sam likes sweets, it doesn't seem strange that Sam would like either the snack or the drink, but Colette seems -- Dean's not sure, but it's like she knows Sam's eaten _tablet cocoye_ before, had this cola. He gets the feeling that how she knows is mixed in with why the Petro are scared of her, so he just meets her gaze and waits.

Colette cracks first, smiling at Dean and saluting him with her own bottle. "I'd never be able to outlast one of Ogou's," she says. "It's foolish to even try. What do you want to know, Dean?"

"How long have you known Sam?" Dean asks. It's the first question that comes to mind and even after yesterday, he can't help but be a little on edge when it comes to Sam and who's laying claim to him.

"I met him the first time he came to Haiti," Colette says. "So, a few years now. He came down to meet with the leader of the Haitian vodouisantes, Alexandrine Pérault." Colette pauses, then adds, carefully, "My mother."

Dean blinks. He honestly hadn't been expecting that. "Hell of a legacy," he says.

Colette studies him, seems to realise he doesn't mean anything else by his statement, and an air of tension he hadn't even noticed she was carrying disappears from her shoulders. "It's a lot to live up to," she says. "Part of the reason I was so eager to accept Sam's offer to come to the States. I love my mother, don't get me wrong, but --."

She trails off there and Dean nods at her, says, "I understand, believe me."

They share a quiet moment, a realisation that they have more things in common than being transplanted into governing this city, and Dean feels warmth and respect for Colette Pérault bloom in his chest.

\--

They don't have much time after that. A pair of the Rada come into the kitchen and hurriedly, anxiously, tell Colette that they need to get moving. She flicks her eyes to Dean, apology written all over her face, but Dean waves it away. He chugs down the last of his cola, pushes his keys across the table to Colette, and says, "I gotta get back anyway. Take care of her for me, okay?"

Colette smiles, says, "Like my own child," and gives Dean a tote bag filled with a four-pack of cola and a couple Tupperware of _tablet cocoye_ to take with him, along with a couple vials of something semi-solid. "They don't tell me why," she says, at Dean's raised eyebrow. "I just do what I'm told."

He rolls his eyes in sympathy and heads for the door.

\--

The sky is turning an ominous green at the edges as Dean takes the bus from Kenner toward the city. The green only gets darker, more violent, as he changes to the Canal streetcar. Dean's staring out the windows at the sky, foot tapping as the streetcar pauses at every single stop, even some that Dean would swear aren't on the map. He gets off at Rampart, too impatient to wait until Baronne, and jogs through the Quarter back to the Dauphine house. Mike's across the street, sitting on Juline's front step; he waves when he sees Dean but doesn't otherwise move. Dean waves back and then turns toward the house.

Once he sees the house, he stops, dead in his tracks.

The windows are boarded up.

That, more than anything -- more than the colour of the sky, more than leaving his Impala in the hands of complete strangers, more than the warnings coming through every news and radio station -- brings this home to him. There's a Cat 5 storm heading right for him, for _Sam_, and they aren't leaving.

"We've all lost our fucking minds," he mutters under his breath, and heads for the front door.

\--

The house is quiet as Dean makes his way inside and kicks his boots off. He stops in the entryway, listens; it feels as if the whole house has taken a deep breath and is waiting as long as it can before exhaling. It's not a feeling that Dean likes very much and, as he goes in search of Sam, his stomach churns.

The televisions are still on in the front room but no one's watching them, and there's no movement from upstairs. Dean heads for the kitchen; the lights are off but the radio's on, tuned to WWL. Dean frowns as he sets the tote on the counter, then spins in a complete circle looking for a note on the table. Nothing there, but he does catch something moving in the courtyard out of the corner of his eye. He goes to the door, opens it, leans against the frame watching as Sam finishes wrapping up the statue of Damballah in white cloth before kissing it and placing it in a large chest next to him.

"I hadn't thought about this," Dean says. Sam pauses, just for a moment, before taking a bolt of cloth that's such a light blue it's almost white, and moving to Agoueh's statue. "Colette sent back some snacks; I left 'em in the kitchen. You could sit down for a second, let me finish up."

"Almost done," Sam says.

Dean casts his eyes around the courtyard and frowns when he sees which statues are left. Sam's trinity, that he expected, along with Ogou and Erzulie Freda, but Sam's also left Baron Samedi for the end, as well as Ati. Dean makes a complete survey of the courtyard, eyes picking out a small, shoebox-sized box to one side, then settling on one more statue, the figurine of Marinette, still standing, red paint gleaming in this strange, pre-hurricane light. The conversation they had yesterday sits heavy on Dean's mind and he wants to ask, so badly, but he won't.

"We'll need the trinity first, I think," Sam says, carefully setting Agoueh's statue in the chest before heading for Ati's. "So they'll be the last to go in the box. Then Ogou, for you, and 'Zulie Freda for the _badjikan_."

"Lakwa?" Dean asks, then says, "In case there are deaths."

Sam gives Dean a distracted glance over one shoulder, using a white cloth patterned in black and green curlicues to wrap up Legba. "In case," he says. "And Ati to help pull any of them down if they're busy." He stops there, sits back on his heels, Ati's statue cradled in his hands, and turns enough to meet Dean's eyes. "I should've put Marinette away earlier, I know, but if we need to call her." He stops there, shrugs. "She's locked up tight," and he sounds regretful, mournful. "If things around here are bad enough that we need to call her, I'll need all the help I can get."

Dean takes one step forward, makes sure Sam's looking at him, and says, clearly, "You'll have me."

Sam's smile is like quicksilver, barely there long enough for Dean to catch a glimpse of it, bitter and pleased at once, and he says, "You should wrap up Ogou. Come on, you can do him while I get started on the trinity."

Ogou mutters something about "_doin'_" that Dean swats at him for, but it's low enough that Dean otherwise chooses to ignore it. Instead, Dean goes over to Ogou's statue, kneels down close to Sam and takes the red cloth when Sam hands it over.

\--

It doesn't take long to finish between the two of them; Dean settles Ogou and Samedi in place while Sam wraps Erzulie Dantor, first, then Ti-Jean, then Karrefour. Sam closes the chest after that, pulls the smaller box towards him and the statue of Marinette.

"She's locked away from the others," Sam says, fingers lingering on the statue as he wraps her in a black-and-red patterned cloth made of something that shines, satin or silk, Dean thinks. "So she can't be in the same space as them." Sam tucks the tail of the cloth in place, holds her for just a moment longer, then places her in the box without a kiss. When he closes the box, it's with a little more force, a deeper exhale, and Dean reaches out, puts one hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezes. Sam reaches across his body, puts his hand over Dean's, and the two sit like that as the first drops of rain start to fall.

\--

They lug the chest and the smaller box inside, carry them both up to their bedroom. Dean's not keen on having any representation of Marinette in the same room as him, much less his bedroom, even more so in any room with _Sam_, but Sam locks her box inside of a larger curse box and says, "Keep your friends close."

"And your enemies closer," Dean finishes. It makes sense, sure, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. It also puts a different spin on the people staying in this house. Dean's pretty sure that Tony's a good guy and LaJane's quiet, seems loyal enough, but he has doubts about Doreen, and Marcus backed her up, rather than Sam, so he's on Dean's list as well. Thinking about it, he's glad they're staying here, with him and Sam, rather than being out among the others and possibly causing trouble.

It also makes him think about Colette, so Dean pulls Sam to the bed and, as they sit next to each other, he says, "Tell me about Colette." 

Sam ducks his head but not before Dean sees his smile. "Not what you expected?" he asks, mildly.

Dean snorts, says, "After Dennis? Definitely not."

"But you like her," Sam guesses, when Dean doesn't say anything else.

"She said her mom was a big-shot in Haiti," Dean says. "That you went down to meet with Lissa. When was this?"

It takes Sam a moment to answer; it feels like Sam's trying to remember rather than trying to avoid the question, so Dean gives his brother time to think. Eventually, the pattern of the rain growing louder, Sam says, "About ten months after I walked into the café in San Francisco. Maybe eleven months. Less than a year. I spent a lot of time going back and forth between San Francisco and Ascension Parish in the beginning, learning vodou and hoodoo, French and Kreyòl. But it got to the point where I needed," he pauses, searches for a word, and finally settles on, "elders. People who could teach me how to rule. And there was a question about my base of power, about how much power I had. This was before I went to see the _memeres_ for the first time. They didn't want to give me the time of day at the beginning; _maman_ took me down to meet with Alexandrine as -- as leverage, sort of."

"Leverage?" Dean asks.

"The _memeres_ didn't believe that I had enough power for a territory," Sam says, "and they didn't _want_ to believe that I was the next _poto mitan_. So _maman_ took me to Haiti and put me in front of Alexandrine . She told Alexandrine about the café, what happened the first night there and how I'd been ridden since, and then she told her to test me. Alexandrine did and confirmed what we'd been telling the _memeres_."

Dean lets out a half-breath, half-whistle between his teeth. He thinks of the _memeres_ sitting in that house down in Plaquemines, thinks of the way they look, and wonders what it must have been like for Sam to go down there when none of them trusted him, none of them wanted him. "Bet they didn't like that."

Sam shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. "Understatement. From what I've gathered, they seriously considered letting me just deal with it myself. But Alexandrine threatened them, said that if they didn't let me settle in Plaquemines, she'd take me in Haiti and plant me there. They liked that even less."

It doesn't make sense to Dean, what difference it would have made to tie Sam to Haiti, but then he stops, thinks about it. "You would've moved," he says, slowly. "I know you can be away from your base of power, but not that far. If they'd planted you in Haiti, you would've had to stay there."

"Just think," Sam says, elbowing Dean lightly. "If it wasn't for the _memeres_, I wouldn't have been in San Francisco when you came looking for me."

"You saying I should send them a card?" Dean asks, aiming for levity though he's not feeling it. Shit. He owes those women; even though he's pretty sure they had ulterior motives of their own, they still gave Sam the ability to stay in this country. Without them, Dean might never have seen Sam again.

Sam leans, rests his head on Dean's shoulder. "Definitely not," he says.

He sets one hand on Dean's thigh, thumb rubbing circles onto Dean's jeans. Dean's trying not to be interested in what that hand's doing, where it might go, what it's so close to, but this is _Sam_ and it's the first few quiet minutes they've had to themselves all day.

"Was it just you and Lissa?" he asks, because he's met Lissa and he knows his brother; the two of them are tough but it would take something beyond courage and approaching insanity for them to walk into Plaquemines and think they'd leave unharmed. It can't have been any easier going to the home of vodou: a different country, different customs, different language and people and expectations. "In Haiti, when you met Alexandrine, I mean."

Sam half-smiles, a strange and sad sort of expression, and says, "No. There were two other horses with us, both in Haiti and down in Plaquemines that first time." Dean waits and, when it seems as if Sam's not going to elaborate, he elbows Sam right in the ribs. "Théo came us with us. And another horse named Marie Madoult."

Ogou flinches at the name.

"_What was that for_?" Dean asks. There's no response from Ogou so Dean looks at Sam and says, "Tell me about her."

"Not much to tell," Sam says, shrugging, but he's not meeting Dean's eyes and Ogou's twisting the way he does when he's unhappy and trying to decide whether he wants to fight or flee. Dean hasn't felt Ogou act like this very often -- maybe once or twice without Karrefour around -- which makes it all the more memorable. "She was a horse born in the bayou, moved out to San Francisco and started working at the café before I stumbled it across it."

Ogou snorts at the explanation, even as he's still burrowed in Dean's mind, almost hiding. "_If you don't tell him, _poto mitan_, I will_," the loa says, addressing Sam even though he's stuck inside of Dean. "_And I won't pull any o' the punches you would._"

Sam's lip curls but he says, "She was one of Marinette's favourite horses. We were close, because of that; sometimes, in ceremony, Marinette would ride us both at the same time. It connected us."

"_Tell 'im the rest_," Ogou demands.

Sam sighs, says, "And then when I didn't choose Marinette as my primary loa in the trinity, Marie tried to kill me."

"_Came damn close_," Ogou says softly. "_I know you ain't got much fondness for the Cali crew, _cheval_, but they saved his life that night. Weren't for Pierre, my _trezò_ would be dead._"

"Sam. Jesus. How many fucking times has Marinette tried to kill you?" Dean asks.

Sam chuckles but it's a sound born less from amusement than pain. "Probably about as many as I tried to lock her up," he says. "It's a mutual thing, I guess."

No matter how many times Sam says he loves Marinette, or that she loves him, Dean just doesn't buy it. They've fought for so long, tried to do the worst they can to each other, and they _love_ each other?

"_The killing, the locking up_," Ogou says, "_the arguing and the worry, that came later. Before, when it was good? That was a different time. It was a good time._"

"Petro run hot," Sam says, "and Marinette runs the hottest of them all. When things were good, they were really good. But when they went bad, well. You've been here for most of that. You know what it's like now."

Dean flops back, stares at the ceiling and listens to it rain. "I just don't get it," he finally says. Sam lies down as well and Dean lets his fingers trace up Sam's hand, caress the knobby points of his wrist before following the curves and lines of the vévé tattooed on his arm. "But I guess I don't have to," Dean says. "So. Haiti. Alexandrine. Colette."

If Sam's surprised that Dean's letting it go, he goes with it, doesn't call Dean on it. "We put one of the local Rada in charge after Dennis but that was never meant to be more than a stop-gap measure. I got in touch with Colette a few days later and asked her to come up and take over. The move took her a while, between visas and the sponsorship paperwork, plus packing up and shipping everything. She got settled first, but Penny, Kat, and Phil came down for the official ceremony as soon as Colette felt comfortable."

"Where were we?" Dean asks. "We could have come back for that."

"Somewhere out west, I think," Sam says. "We didn't need to be here."

The rain's picked up velocity; it's pounding insistently on the roof and against the walls and boarded-up windows. Dean gets chills, listening to it, but between the steady noise and the warmth Sam's emitting, next to him, Dean falls asleep.

\--

Dean wakes up later, just long enough to realise he's naked and under the sheet. The ceiling fan, normally enough of a steady pattern to lull Dean to sleep, is drowned out by the rain and the wind. For a moment, Dean wonders if he should go downstairs or check on the others but this feels like the first real chance he's had to sleep in days and Sam's lying next to him, naked as well and warm, covered in sweat.

"Okay?" Dean mutters, voice rasping with exhaustion that he's kept at bay by sheer strength of will thus far.

"Yeah," Sam says, smoothing a hand over Dean's hip. "Go back to sleep, Dean. Everything's fine."

The wind howls. Dean sleeps.


	10. Monday, August 29, 2005 - Part One

Dean wakes up. It's dark but he can see the shadow of the ceiling fan's spinning slow then stop entirely. The sound of rain hitting the boarded-up window is all he can hear.

"Power's out," Sam says. "You woke up right when it cut. Pretty impressive."

"Have you slept?" Dean asks.

Sam doesn't say reply, which is answer enough.

\--

They towel off the sweat and put on their thinnest jeans, not bothering with t-shirts. Sam leads the way through the dark house without a misstep and Dean carefully follows him into the sitting room that looks out over Dauphine. The windows are boarded up so they can't see outside, but Sam puts one hand on the wall; Dean wonders if the loa are showing Sam exactly what's happening.

Dean's never been in a hurricane before; there were a few near-misses growing up when they had hunts near the Gulf or the Atlantic, but John always got them out with plenty of time to spare. Dean's never even seen contraflow, no matter how much he always wanted to. Being here, now, like this, he thinks maybe he was an asshole for that.

"_Ain't nothing wrong with being curious_," Ogou mutters, but he doesn't sound very impressed.

Tony knocks on the doorframe with his knuckles and comes in carrying a tray loaded with mugs and a couple lit candles. LaJane's right behind him, another tray in her hands.

"Coffee's still hot," she says. "And we brought up the last of the food from the fridge."

Sandwiches aren't usually things Dean eats for breakfast, not with his love of waffles and pancakes and french toast, but he takes a sandwich in one hand, a coffee in the other, and says, "Thanks."

LaJane nods and turns in Sam's direction. She opens her mouth but then thinks better of saying anything to him, just sets the tray down on a side table next to where Tony's put the coffee. She eyes Dean, who simply nods and takes a bite of his chicken salad on baguette.

\--

He's not hungry but Dean ends up eating a couple more sandwiches, feeling them fill his stomach and brace him against the day. He's perched on the edge of the couch, eyes fixed on Sam, who still has one hand on the wall. Sam's eyes are closed, he hasn't made a sound, and the ends of his hair are moving in a breeze that Dean can't feel.

Tony and LaJane have come and gone several times, along with Marcus and Doreen, but the four other _konfians kays_ are all here now, faces and bodies lit in strange shivering ways when the candles flicker. Dean gets the impression that they're waiting for something but he isn't sure what. He turns to Tony, says, "So what's the," and stops there. Dean's not sure what's going on, it was like his voice was suddenly stolen from him. Panic fills his chest as he tries again and his voice doesn't work at all.

"_Buckle down_," Ogou warns, and the loa's fluttering madly in the back of Dean's skull. "_This is gonna_ hurt."

Dean stands up. He can feel -- he's not sure, something intangible coming right for them, something large and strong and crackling with power. He turns to Sam, just in time to see Sam open his eyes and turn to him.

"_Dean_," Sam says, and then collapses to the floor in what looks like a seizure.

Tony's moved so fast across the room that he's practically teleported to Sam's side. Dean wants to join him, is telling his body to move, to get there _now_, but his feet are stuck fast to the floor. The wave of power's still flooding the room and Dean's lungs stop working as well. He gasps for breath, shallow wheezing all he can come up with and then, just like the storm outside, the power _hits_ and it _hurts_, oh god it _hurts_.

Dean falls to the floor, every muscle in his body trembling as his heart skips one beat, then two, then three.

"_Breathe through it_," Ogou tells him. "_Come on, _idyo_, ride it, just ride it out._"

"_What the fuck_," Dean pants, taking short little breaths that do nothing to help the light-headedness or clear away the spots in his vision, "_is happening_."

Ogou curls, winding himself through Dean's body, taking over just enough that Dean's muscles twitch then relax, heart racing as it starts back up and tries to find a rhythm. "_'Cane hit_," the loa says. "_Plaquemines, be my guess. What you felt? That's the _poto mitan's_ power. Ain't nothing left down there for the _memeres_ now, not judging by the feel o' this._"

"_Are you saying that was _Sam?" Dean asks. Ogou doesn't reply but the careful way he's still buoying Dean up speaks volumes. A howling hits Dean's ears and a second wave of power follows it, clawing and scraping its way through his body. "_Can the others feel it_?" he asks Ogou. "_How can they _not?"

"_Something to do with the exemptions, mebbe_," Ogou says. "_Or mebbe something them _memeres_ did before they goin'. Ain't no way to know without asking the _poto mitan."

Dean pushes himself up, trying as best he can to ignore the waves buffeting through his body like knives. It's hard but he has to check on Sam, has to see how Sam's coping, because if this is how _Dean_ feels, then his brother has to feel ten times worse.

"Whoa, Dean, hey, take it easy," Marcus is saying, one hand clenched tight around Dean's upper arm, the other on Dean' back. "Are you sure you can sit up?"

Dean tries to say his brother's name, ends up coughing hard enough that he nearly blacks out. He tries again and a croaking noise comes out of his throat, so he tries _again_ and this time a weak-sounding "Sam" comes out. "Gotta -- Sam."

"Tony and LaJane are with him," Marcus says. He hauls Dean upright, lets Dean lean against him and stare at Sam.

It's like something out of Dean's worst nightmare: the vévés on Sam's arms are broken and weeping blood like tears and the tattoos on his chest have split apart as well. Sam's back is arched in a rictus of pain and his mouth is caught open on a silent scream; he's covered in blood and sweat and he looks like he's dying. Even worse, Sam's crying -- crying _blood_.

"You know what's going on?" Marcus asks. "Dean? _Dean_. Do you know what the fuck's happening? Does Ogou?"

"_Get over there 'nd touch him_," Ogou urges. "_Karrefour be doing something and he say he need you._"

Dean tips forward onto his hands and knees; for one split second, Dean thinks Marcus is trying to hold him back, keep him away from Sam, and the rush of fury nearly threatens to take Dean away on a wild sea of red. Dean closes his eyes, calms Ogou down, adds Marcus to the list of people he's going to rip apart with his fucking _teeth_, and then, with aching slowness, every movement feeling like glass ripping through his skin and tearing his bones apart, he crawls the six steps to Sam and collapses, one hand brushing Sam's shoulder.

The pain is unimaginable. His mind is splitting apart, that's the only explanation for the way he feels, a giant black hole in his head sending shockwaves through his body as something larger than himself tries to burrow inside. Dean jerks away then grits his teeth and pulls himself together just long enough to get close enough to Sam to fall right on top of him.

\--

Black. All Dean sees is black. All he feels is pain.

"Open up, _cheval_," he hears. Dean opens his eyes, squinting into the darkness. "Ayah, that's it. Come on, git to your feet."

Dean smells rum and pepper, hears drums in the distance, almost drowned out by a constant, keening wind. "Ogou?" he asks.

"S'me, _cheval_," Ogou says. "Now come on, up."

Ogou pulls on Dean's arm and puts it over his shoulders, helps Dean stand up. Dean's so lightheaded and the pain is a constant ache in his bones and teeth; he nearly loses his balance as soon as he's upright. Ogou holds on to him, croons to him in Kreyòl, and gets Dean moving.

"Where," Dean says, stumbling over desert sand. "What."

"Gotta git you to the _poto mitan_," Ogous says, half-helping, half-dragging Dean along. Dean can pull himself together enough to get to Sam, he can and he _will_. He puts his face to the wind and starts kicking his way through the sand, fighting for every inch of progress. "I ain't entirely sure what's going on, _cheval_, but I can guess," Ogou tells him. "'Cane hit down in Plaquemines, tore his power half to shreds. Seems like it be comin' back at him, all at once. He almost taken it but."

Dean waits and when Ogou doesn't finish, asks, "But?"

Ogou shrugs, nearly toppling Dean over. "Ain't no way to know. Now hush and do what Karrefour tell you."

The darkness here is lighter, not much but enough for Dean to see Ogou. The loa's wearing his normal red, is carrying his normal machete in the hand not supporting Dean, and is splattered with blood. Dean blinks, turns his head and sees Sam on the ground, eyes open but unseeing, mouthing something that Dean can't make out.

"Part o' his _konesan_," Karrefour says. The loa's kneeling next to Sam, eyes black as night, one hand over the tattoo of his vévé on Sam's arm, the other on Sam's forehead. Danny's sitting cross-legged on the sand, Sam's head in her lap, her fingers on his temples and her hair disheveled, tendrils knotting up in the breeze. "Well, boy?" Karrefour says. "Git down here."

"God fucking damn it," Dean mutters, bravado through the hurt, "_not a boy_." Ogou helps him down and Dean groans as he kneels across from Karrefour, Sam's body between them. "What do I need to do?"

Karrefour's eyes flick to Dean, then back to Sam. "You gotta make a choice," Karrefour says. "When he let the _memeres_ take his power, string it out over the parish? That was a one-time deal, _konprann_? He ain't gonna have to limit himself to one base o' power, gonna have to hold it in him from now until he dies," and the look on Karrefour's face makes Dean think the loa's more than pleased with that.

"So what's the problem?" Dean asks.

"It don't all fit," Karrefour says, straight to the point this time. "It's grown, somehow; thanks to his _konesan_, mebbe, or mebbe it never stopped growing. So you got two options. I can cut the extra from him or I can force it in. But you gotta decide and _quick_."

Dean stares at Karrefour, then looks up at Ogou. Ogou shrugs one shoulder and looks back out to the desert. Dean turns to Danny and she tilts her head, gives Dean a strange smile that sends shivers down his spine.

"My _masisi_," she murmurs, the whisper nearly lost on the wind. "There ain't never only two options."

Karrefour swears at her, tells her to shut up, but Dean gets it instantly and looks at the black magic loa, corner of his vision catching the beginning of a true smile on Danny's coquettish lips. "I can help anchor it. You won't have to cut it from him and you won't have to push it in. Use me."

"Anchoring only worked once," Karrefour starts to say.

Dean cuts him off, says, "To a place, yeah, but not to a person. I'm his _solèy_, your _mato_. Fuck, Karrefour, I'm a damn trinity myself. It'll work. Don't lie, not when it comes to Sam. And do it now."

Karrefour's nostrils flare and he glares at Dean but nods, once. "This," he says, with no small amount of satisfaction in his eyes, "ain't gonna be pleasant."

\--

That turns out to be the biggest understatement Dean's ever heard in his life.

\--

Dean inhales, scrabbling for purchase on the sand before he realises he's back in the Dauphine house, on the floor, and both Marcus and Doreen are trying to get him off of Sam.

"Wait," Sam breathes, his voice shredded, and everyone except Dean freezes.

"Shit, Sam," Dean says, and he slides off his brother, keeps one of Sam's hands in his. "Did that. The first time, did that --."

He can't form the words and is pathetically pleased when Sam understands, says, "No. Not nearly as much. Uncomfortable, not painful. It took longer. Weeks. And the _memeres_."

Dean exhales and brings Sam's hand up to his face, curling Sam's fingers around his own, pressing Sam's knuckles to his forehead. "You don't mind?"

He can't put into words what happened in that place inhabited by loa. There's no way to express the amount of trepidation he feels, having taken that choice away from Sam. But Sam scoots close to him, twists enough so that he can use his free hand to cup the curve of Dean's jaw, and says, "Never. It's what you told Karrefour, after all. You're my _solèy_."

\--

They lay there, get their breath back, let the shakes and shivers dissipate on their own along with the aches and the adrenaline. The other _konfians kays_ are hovering but seem willing to let Sam and Dean come to terms with whatever happened. Finally, when they're ready to move, Tony helps Sam up and Marcus helps Dean, as Doreen and LaJane stand near them, eyes wide.

"Y'all need to get clean," the _badjikan_ says from the doorway. "Blood ev'rywhere."

"Yeah," Dean says. "'Cept there's no water for a shower."

Marcus snorts, says, "You could stand outside for a couple minutes. Bet you'd get pretty clean pretty quick." Dean looks at Sam, raises an eyebrow, and Marcus's grin falls as his eyes widen. "No, hey, I was just joking."

"I've never showered in a hurricane before," Dean says.

Sam grins, teeth bright and shining. "Me either."

\--

The hurricane's not far away and the wind drives the raindrops like bullets. Still, Sam and Dean race out into the courtyard in their underwear, whooping at the cold and acting like idiots as they try not to blow away. It doesn't hurt as much as the breaking of Sam's anchor, definitely doesn't hurt like it did in the loa's desert, and as the blood washes off their bodies, Dean can't help but laugh.

The wind steals his breath and leaves him gasping for air.

\--

They go inside and towel off, put on different pairs of jeans and dump the bloodstained clothes into a basket, sprayed down with stain remover. The _badjikan_ meets them upstairs in the hall and tilts his head towards this floor's front room. Dean frowns but follows Sam and the _badjikan_ into the room, frown only growing deeper and putting more furrows in his brow when the _badjikan_ closes the door behind him.

"'Cane hit, chile," the _badjikan_ says without preamble. "And nothing happened. It's going straight past us. Was Simbe wrong?"

"I don't know," Sam says, which hits Dean like a punch to the gut. Sam sounds honestly worried, like maybe he's not sure about Simbe's prediction himself. It was easier before the hurricane, Dean can see that, but the storm isn't completely past. With the way Sam's anchorings shattered so violently, it's possible that Plaquemines has been wiped off the map, and they have no link to the outside world. There's no way of knowing what else could have happened. 

Dean reaches out, runs his hand down Sam's arm, skimming the newly-forming scabs over his brother's tattoos. "He wasn't," Dean says, and even though Ogou's pushing him to say the words, Dean has faith in Simbe even without Ogou's insistence. "Anything could be happening out there, Sam. _Anything_. We just don't know."

The _badjikan_ nods but he also says, "The others, downstairs. They're starting to wonder. I just wanted the two o' you to be aware before you head back down."

"Thanks," Dean says.

Danny's perfume fills the room so fast that Dean's eyes water. "If they wondering 'bout my _chwal_, we gonna need to talk," she says, and her words are like velvet-coated steel, match her narrowed eyes perfectly.

"We will," Dean says, and he takes his hand off of Danny's arm only so he can press himself against her, him and Ogou both. "Once we know what Simbe was talking about. Once we've dealt with it. Then we'll talk. Even if Sam doesn't want to."

"Good," Danny purrs.

\--

They leave the _badjikan_ and take a candle with them to light the steps. When Dean gets to the ground floor and walks into the front room, Sam following close enough that Dean can feel his brother's heat like a solid wall against his back, the four _konfians kays_ look at them before exchanging glances amongst themselves. Dean wants to bare his teeth at Doreen and Marcus, wants to go over and beat them to within an inch of their lives, and he reins in Ogou long enough to remind the loa that they'll deal with the others once Katrina's over.

"_Not soon enough_," Ogou says, grumpy at having to wait when it's so clearly obvious that they need to be punished.

"_Disrespect isn't enough_," Dean says, "_not really. Can we justify harming them simply because they're stupid_?"

Sam glances at him, biting back a smile that has Karrefour riding at the edges. Dean returns the smile, can't help it, and it doesn't take long before the other _konfians kays_ start making excuses to leave.

\--

It's a couple hours later when Tony knocks on the open door. "Sam, you should really turn on the radio," he says. Dean sees tear-tracks on Tony's cheeks, glances at Sam just quick enough to see Sam glancing at him. The others have been in the kitchen, the wind dropping every now and then just enough to let Dean hear the crackle of a radio turned up high. LaJane's come in a couple times to pass messages along but other than that, neither of them know what's going on, why Tony looks heartbroken. "WWL-AM, right now. Please."

Sam frowns and it's Dean who crosses the room to the clock-radio, switching it to the only radio station still broadcasting.

"We have reports of flooding," Garland Robinette's saying. He sounds blankly horrified. "We." He pauses, as if listening to someone else or reading something. "Water is flowing into Orleans and St. Bernard parishes at an unprecedented rate. Call in, if your phone's still working, and tell us what's going on. We have someone from the Lower Ninth, near Industrial, is that right?"

"Water pourin' in my house, man," a different guy says, phone crackling. "We heard a boom and the place _shook_. We're gonna be under soon; we headin' for the roof once I get off the phone."

Robinette asks, "Can you tell us where the water's coming from?"

The phone crackles and the guy manages to say, "All the manhole covers popped and the storm drains 're filling up. Guy said the levees -- there's a whole section gone -- cracked or somethin' -- and the water's," before his phone cuts off.

Sam turns to Dean and it's only that motion that has Dean looking away from the radio. Sam has tears dripping down his face and Dean doesn't think his brother notices. "Dean," he's saying. "Dean. They're supposed to hold. _They're supposed to hold_. This isn't happening. Tell me this isn't happening."

Dean looks towards the window, can't see anything but plywood, nailed to the outside of the house.

"Ma'am?" Robinette says. "Can you say that again, your house is _gone_?"

"Gone, just flooded right out. I'm on my neighbour's roof; they pulled me up and I'm using their phone. We dunno how long we gonna be able to stay here. I don't got no clue where the water's coming from but it's here, help us, oh, Jesus, sweet Lord, it's _here_."

Dean shakes his head. "My god," he says, low and in utter disbelief. "Oh my god."

"Dean, tell me," Sam says, begging now.

"I," Dean starts to say, stops when Sam drops to his knees, throws his head back, and howls. The sound is eerie, nothing human, and Dean gets chills as he remembers how the _loup-garou_ sounded, deep in the middle of the bayou, caught in the pain of changing from wolf to human. This is that sound, just in reverse, and Dean wouldn't be at all surprised to see Sam's skin split open and show fur.

"_Don't let 'im_," Ogou warns Dean. "_You 'member anything else 'bout that time_?"

Dean doesn't have to wonder what Ogou's circling around; he remembers everything about that meeting. He waves Tony away, out of the room, as he goes over to his brother, gets to his knees next to Sam, and hugs Sam tight. "You got this," he tells Sam, squeezing so hard it's a wonder that Sam can even breathe. "We'll manage. Okay? We knew it was gonna be bad. We're ready."

The howl's still going, undulating through the air, and Sam's hands are curled like claws.

"_Has he ever shifted before_?" Dean asks. It feels like one more thing he should know about Sam, something else he's failed at learning just because he's not willing to listen to stories about Sam's time with Marinette.

He's been going about this all wrong, he thinks, crouched on the floor. His father always taught him to learn everything he can about his enemies, whether they were human or supernatural, but apart from the grains Sam and others have let drop, apart from what Dean hasn't repressed from Marinette's bridle, he doesn't know a thing about her. It's jealousy, mostly, of the one thing that Sam might love more than Dean, and it's a stunning realisation to have when Dean thought the biggest problem he and Sam have is Sam's unwillingness to believe that Dean will never leave.

"_A few times_," Ogou says, "_but not since he lived with the witch in Ascension. He used to run in the bayou, sometimes with _that girl."

Dean wonders what it feels like, to slip free of humanity and run wild. He can see the appeal it held for Sam, especially in the early days when he was learning how to be who he is today.

Sam's howl, however long it's lasted, dies down, though Dean can hear dogs throughout the neighbourhood barking. Sam pants, leans into Dean. "Fine," he says. "I'm fine."

"Forgive me if I don't quite believe that," Dean says, hauling Sam upright and manhandling him onto the couch. "How close were you to shifting, huh?"

"I wouldn't have," Sam says, hunched over, heels of his palms covering his eyes. "Not without -- she's locked up."

Dean doesn't exactly believe Sam; things have a tendency to get fucked up around his brother. Still, he accepts it for now and pulls Sam close.

\--

Sam falls asleep; Dean's not sure how his brother can sleep at a time like this, but LaJane looks in at one point, finger over her lips, and smiles sadly, seeing Sam curled up on the couch, head in Dean's lap.

"_Girl thinkin' he be needin' sleep_," Ogou says, and he rides Dean enough to stroke his hand along Sam's hair. "_No shit, right_."

LaJane disappears back into the hallway, closing the door behind her. Dean drinks in the silence and wonders how much worse it's going to get before it gets better.

\--

Sam only sleeps for an hour or so -- it's hard to tell time without looking, just by listening to the radio and waving off the others every time one of them peeks their head through the doorway. It's more than he got last night though; Dean doesn't begrudge Sam's body giving out on him, especially after the morning they've already had.

He dozes himself, one ear opened and listening for noises in the rest of the house, but Dean springs back to full alertness when Sam shudders and then gasps, waking up instantly.

"What is it?" Dean asks.

"I'm not sure," Sam says, shaking his head. "Another landfall, maybe. Or it could've hit one of our other territories close by. Something like that." Sam yawns, stretches, and Dean takes in his brother's body, the scabs over his tattoos and the deep, dark hollows under Sam's eyes. "What time is it?"

Dean shrugs, wraps an arm around Sam's shoulders and pulls him close when Sam leans back into the couch. "Ten-ish, maybe? I've been listening to the radio but they're just playing calls when they get them -- they think the network's gone down, mostly -- and the latest reports, not saying much about the time. Last they checked it was quarter-to, I think."

"What've they said?" Sam asks.

He's reluctant to answer but Sam elbows him. "There's eight feet of water in the Lower Ninth," Dean says. "People are getting worried that if Industrial's down, it may be a sign that the others could breach or overtop or whatever happened to Industrial. A few people brought up a Hurricane Center study a while back?" Dean takes a deep breath, thinks he knows how Sam's going to react to the next piece of news. "A lot of people are on their roofs and in trees, shit like that. Sam, there are -- a lot of people made it to their attics but then they --." 

He stops, still horrified at the thought of what people must have felt, thinking they'd be safe in the highest part of their house and then realising that the water wasn't stopping and they were trapped. He wonders how many corpses will be found without fingernails or with broken knuckles.

Sam hums, presses in closer to Dean as if he's trying leech strength from his brother. "We should start figuring out what to do," he says, leaving the issue of people drowning in their attics for now. It's probably the smartest thing Sam's done in quite a while; there's nothing either of them can do right now and they'll have plenty of time to mourn once they've seen to the vodouisantes who made it through the storm and the flooding. "We have people in the Ninth. We'll need to get boats, get people out of there."

"It's still raining," Dean says. "It'll end soon, probably, but if we go out there now, we'll just be adding to the mess. Better to wait until we know what's happening." He pauses, then adds, "And if any of the other levees go down, we may need to prioritise."

"Yeah," Sam says. Hopeless resignation and self-loathing fill his voice. Dean completely understands.

\--

They wait, curled together, Ogou and Danny riding them enough to keep close as well, the acrid smell of Ogou's hot pepper mixing with Danny's perfume and filling the room with enough of a scent to cover sweat and blood and fear. 

An hour and a half later, the radio confirms that most of St. Bernard parish is completely underwater. Sam winces as he hears that and the rage of Ge-Rouge fills Dean's nostrils for a split-second, quick enough that he can almost convince himself he imagined it -- almost, but not entirely, not when Rita peers around the door, eyes narrowed. Dean's not sure when she arrived; he would've thought he'd hear her come in, but his focus _has_ been on his brother.

"Y'all good so far?" she asks, and though she used the plural, it's clear that she's asking Sam.

"Might come and get some food," Sam says, giving Rita a hard look.

She swallows but doesn't look away, even with the faint traces of pink in the whites of Sam's eyes. Dean's proud of her, proud but also triumphant that his _mamalwa_ can look Ge-Rouge in the eyes when _konfians kays_ haven't been able to.

"We got food," she says. "Nothing fancy, but good enough for now." She hesitates and it takes Dean raising an eyebrow before she says, "I can bring some here for you if you'd rather not be with the others."

The others. Apparently Rita's not at ease with the visitors either. That's good to know.

"I'm not gonna make you wait on us," Sam says, and stands up. "We can get our own food, Querida. But thank you for offering."

Rita inclines her head, a halfway regal gesture, and leaves them alone, leaves the door cracked for them.

"If only more of them were like her," Sam says, quietly. "Her and her brother both. If they weren't bound deep to this city and its leadership, I'd ask them to move to Biloxi and take over there for us. It's been too long since Biloxi's had a Petro _konfians kay_ and either of them'd be perfect."

"They'd go if you asked," Dean says. If he knows one thing about Rita, he knows that. She's loyal to the _poto mitan_, whether that's Sam or someone else, but she loves Sam in a way that Dean doesn't understand.

It's a love, he thinks, that has a lot to do with relief and a little with fear, but it's primarily a violent, possessive thing that has a beating heart of its own. Most of his Petro feel the same way; as much as Dean's relieved that his people are protective of Sam, he's jealous, too, just a little. He knows it'll take time before they love him the way they love Sam, if ever, and Dean doesn't really care about that part of it; they can like him or not, whatever they want. These people want Sam, though. They _need_ Sam. And as much as Sam's given up for Dean -- time, independence, secrets, fuck, even part of his power now -- and as united as they are, there always seems to be something just out of Dean's reach, some part of Sam that these people know but Dean doesn't.

Marinette. It's probably got something to do with Marinette. It usually does. 

Sam shakes his head, says, "I know," words pulling Dean out of his thoughts. "Which is why I won't ask. They'd go out of obedience but they'd end up resenting it eventually. They're not Colette, not in that way. She wanted the chance to get out but they love it here. Besides, she's your _mamalwa_. When we're not around, she speaks with your voice."

Dean hesitates, stands up so he doesn't have to talk, but then Sam's touching his shoulder, lightly, with the tips of two fingers. "I think we might be around for a while," Dean finally says.

Sam nods, a movement that's testament to how tired he is, judging from the tension of the muscles in his neck. "Not yet," he says. "Besides, I'm hungry."

"Bondye forbid you don't get food in your stomach," Dean teases, but they both know how little Sam's been eating and how rare it's been for him to have any kind of appetite lately. Sam wasn't serious when he said he was hungry and Dean knows it, just like Sam knows that Dean's seen through his ploy and is going to let him get away with it.

They twine their hands together and leave the front room, heading for the kitchen.

\--

At noon, with untouched plates in their hands, in a kitchen that's packed to capacity but silent apart from people drinking warm, flat beer, Dean's ears pop as the hurricane moves away from New Orleans.


	11. Monday, August 29, 2005 - Part Two

Later in the day, they're in the front room, sweating. The closed-up house feels stifling; Dean's never been in this house without an open door or window or the ceiling fans spinning. Without electricity, the room lit up with flashlights and candles, the air's stagnant, breeding a life of its own around them. Dean hates it. He feels helpless and trapped, shut up like this while people are drowning outside.

Ogou's not happy either, the both of them going stir-crazy and feeding off of each other's need to get outside and do something, _anything_. Dean keeps reminding the loa that they'd only be making things worse if they went out, no matter how much he wants to; Ogou argues back and they keep sniping at each other until Sam looks at them, silences them both with a look.

Eventually, the radio announcer says that they've gotten reports from city officials that the 17th Street Canal, along with two others, has breached.

"That'll be Lakeview and Gentilly, then," Sam says. "Broadmoor, Mid-City." He breathes out a curse and puts his head in his hands. It's the first time Sam's spoken in four hours.

It's not two minutes before there's a knock on the door. Rita peers around the edge and Dean gestures for her to come in. She does, cautiously, and lets the door swing open behind her. Tony follows her inside, padding on silent feet. He looks devastated, still, as if he can't believe any of this is happening.

Rita offers Sam a bottle of water and says, "_Poto mitan_," in a low voice when he doesn't move to take it. Sam looks up at her, takes the water and gives her a tight smile in thanks. With more openness and hesitation than Dean's ever seen on Rita's face, she says, "You told us the worst was gonna happen. It has. We need you more than ever right now, _poto mitan_. But we understand if you need time."

Sam meets her eyes and takes a deep breath before he nods, once. "Someone needs to try and get in contact with Penny," he says, first. His voice is shaking as he starts to talk but firms up as he goes on. "See how things are in Biloxi. The radio said that the hurricane turned towards Mississippi at the last second and she may still be going through it, but start trying. Karrefour says she's all right but he's too busy to say more. If the phones are out, try the internet, find someone with a satellite phone, drive out to Baton Rouge, ham radio, anything. We need to know how much of our --." His voice gives out, eyes bleak and blank, but he swallows, says, "We need to know how many of our people we lost, how much of our territory. We need to know how bad it is."

Rita nods but doesn't move. Dean gives Tony a look and he leaves with a nod. "What else?" Rita asks, gently. Dean almost can't believe how calm she is, partially because she's a Petro horse but mostly because this is _her_ city and it might be dying as they speak. Tony's from St. Louis and Dean's from everywhere and nowhere -- the _houngon_'s spirit he's melded with goes a long way toward giving him a sense of loyalty to New Orleans but he's still finding his feet in the city. This is Rita's home, though. And now they're saying parts of it are just -- are just _gone_.

"Have someone call the television or radio stations," Sam says. Dean would be amazed at how quickly Sam's pulling himself together if he wasn't so worried about his brother. "Stay informed. Ask how we can help. There are people on rooftops in NOE and the Lower Ninth; see if anyone's organising rescue missions. We have people with boats but we need more; find them. Start getting our supplies into the city. We can stage here, at your house, another one of the safe-houses, whatever's best. Call our people in other cities and ask for food, water, supplies. Beg if you have to. Cost is no object. If the levees have broken, then our stockpile won't last long enough." Sam stops, says, even softer, "Find out _exactly_ what's going on with the levees, how far upriver and down from the lake it's flooding."

Dean frowns, starts to ask what Sam's thinking, but then he realises. Not only do they have properties in Gentilly and the Bywater where out-of-town Petro are staying, Colette has a house full of Rada in Kenner, between I-10 and Airline Drive, and there are two other safe-houses within a few blocks of her. They had all thought it would be safer for the Rada on the river side of I-10, not the lake side, but if the 17th Street Canal actually broke, they may have moved their people from the safety of the Quarter right into the worst of this mess. If it happened while they were sleeping, or if they didn't have enough time, then Colette -- Dean's blood runs cold.

Rita doesn't follow but she doesn't have to, not when Dean says, "The media should know that. Once we know, we'll consider our options."

Sam nods, looks at Rita, and says, "Move as fast as you can. We can't afford to waste time."

"Of course," she replies. "We can draw on our resources in Baton Rouge and Lafayette; they knew before the storm hit that we'd be calling them first if we needed help. We can work from my house for now," she adds. "It'll keep everyone else out of your hair. I'll head back and start; come when you're ready."

She leaves and Sam turns into Dean, burying his face in the curve where Dean's neck meets shoulder. "This is not going to be good," Sam says. His words are measured and precise, rife with sorrow. "This will not end well."

\--

Sam doesn't mourn for long. Dean would be impressed and a little worried at how quickly Sam buries his distress, especially after the near-miss earlier, but he sees the loa moving in Sam's eyes, buoying him up and lending him their strength. Sam stands, offers his hand to Dean; Dean takes it, instantly, and lets Sam pull him upright.

Dean follows Sam up the steps; he's not sure why they're going up when everyone's in the kitchen but he keeps his mouth closed and gets it when Sam tracks the _badjikan_ to the upstairs room. 

"Round up everyone in the house," Sam tells the _badjikan_. "Tell them to get dressed for outdoor work. We'll be heading down to the Marigny to meet with the others staying at the Paginot house. Has anyone heard from Colette?"

"'Zulie says she's fine," the _badjikan_ says. "Y'all need her to get over here?"

Sam pauses, thinks about that for a moment. "Not yet," he says. "Ask Erzulie if she's willing to pass some messages over to Colette and Valéry, if there are things we need to let them know. Are you coming with us?"

"Thought maybe I'd stay here," the _badjikan_ says. "Start taking down the plywood." He stops, opens his mouth as if to speak but doesn't say anything.

"What?" Sam asks.

The _badjikan_ studies Sam, eyes flicking to Dean at one point, then says, "I could get the courtyard back in shape," hesitantly. "Only I don't wanna step on your toes, _poto mitan_."

Sam rolls his eyes, says, "The trunk's in the bedroom. Don't worry about ritual; they'll just be wanting the air. And Marinette's in the curse box," Sam adds, a strange light in his eyes. "Best leave her there for now."

Dean shudders, seeing that light, but the _badjikan_ beams, nods his head so fast and so far down that Dean thinks it's almost a bow. "'Course," the _badjikan_ says. "I'll get the windows open first, get some air going 'round the place. Then I'll get everything put back where it belongs."

"Thanks," Sam says. "I might leave Doreen here to help. Not that I think you need it," Sam tacks on hurriedly, seeing the _badjikan_ start to frown. "But I'd rather she not mingle with the rest of our people for now."

It's a bigger step than Dean had been expecting Sam to take; evidently, judging by how the _badjikan_ gives Sam a nod of approval and a sly half-smirk, the _badjikan_ approves of this move as well.

"Sounds good, honey-chile," the _badjikan_ drawls. "You get ready; I'll pass the messages 'long to the others."

The _badjikan_ leaves, closing the door behind him. Sam lets out a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Clothes," he says. "We'll need to gather up bug spray, water, energy bars. Maybe a couple backpacks' worth."

"We'll start with clothes," Dean says. He goes to Sam, pulls Sam in tight and close, and says, "It'll be all right. We'll make it right."

"Half the city's flooded," Sam murmurs. "It's going to be a long time before everything's all right."

Dean wants to argue but can't.

\--

They get dressed, pulling on t-shirts and socks and boots. It'd be better if they had rubber boots but in some places the water's higher than they are tall, boots aren't going to make much of a difference. Dean goes into the bathroom and clears out the cupboard under the sink of bug spray and sunscreen. When he comes back out into the bedroom, he stops in his tracks, takes in what Sam's wearing.

The t-shirt Sam picked out looks thin, colour faded from what Dean imagines was once a royal blue into something pale, close to white, too pale to see the logo that was once in the middle. The hems have come out at the bottom and around the sleeves and there are small holes in the edges of the collar and along some of the seams.

"You can't possibly be going out in that," Dean says.

Sam shrugs, gives Dean a grim smile. "It's my comfort shirt," he says. Dean wants to ask what the hell that means, but he's seen this look in Sam's eyes before and knows not to push, not now, not yet. Later.

Maybe.

\--

Everyone in the house apart from Doreen and the _badjikan_ leaves in a big group and heads down Dauphine toward the Marigny together. Sam and Dean lead the way, backpacks stuffed to the brim dragging down their shoulders, heavy-laden tote bags in their hands. Everyone else is carrying much the same and Dean wonders just how much more they have in terms of supplies, at least until he gets to the Paginot house.

He's never been to Rita and Emil's house before and he walks up the front steps to their small porch behind Sam. Sam knocks on the door and Rita opens it immediately.

"_Poto mitan_," she says, meeting Sam's eyes and then scanning the group behind him, satisfaction flashing in her eyes when, Dean thinks, she notices the lack of Doreen's presence. "Be welcome in my home."

"Thank you," Sam says, simply, and when Rita moves to the side, Sam enters.

Dean follows him, nodding sharply at Rita's murmured, "_Papalwa_." He looks around, takes in the front room quickly, mapping out everyone stuffed into the room and overflowing to the kitchen, plus the location of all the doors and windows in his immediate sight. He inhales, smells Petro and a lot of them, and even that doesn't erase the fact that he hates Sam being in front of him, a target for anyone who'd think to take a shot at him.

"_Your folk won't let nothin' happen to him_," Ogou reminds Dean. "_And they scattered in and around the others. 'Sides, you better trust that your _mamalwa_ won't stand for havin' _bosal_ horses in her house._"

"_No one in this house has anything to do with the rebellion, you're _sure_ of that_?" Dean snaps. "_Willing to swear to it on the life of the _poto mitan?"

Sam turns, looks at Dean over his shoulder, gleam in his eyes behind the constant presence of loa, slight smile on his lips.

"Yeah, I know," Dean mutters to Sam. "But still."

With a slow blink of his eyes, Sam grins at Dean, then turns back to the people crowded into Rita and Emil's house. "Thank you for being here," he says, and it's not loud but the words seem to echo, everyone motionless and silent to take them in, focused on Sam like he's the leader of the hunt and they're the hounds getting ready to track the scent of their prey.

Petro, it's because they're Petro, and in the atmosphere, Dean finally starts to relax. They might not all be _his_ Petro, but they're Petro enough to be loyal in the hot burn of their helpless rage.

"We have supply lines set up to bring in water, food, and other necessities from out of town," Sam goes on. "Things should be getting here soon. Rita has begun making calls to other cities and territories but she'll need assistance making contact with everyone. I know cell phone service is out but we have landlines set up here, at Colette's, at the Dauphine house, and at every safe-house. We need to get on that while we still can. If you'd like to help, see Rita; she'll only need a handful since we have a limited supply of phones. Once supplies start coming in, we'll need to unpack, redistribute. We'll need two dozen or so working on that; see Emil." Sam pauses there, takes a breath, then says, "We're looking for volunteers to go out and start helping whoever we can find. We'll need boats, as many of them as we can get. If you have one or two and you don't mind letting us use them, see Dean. If you come across some, take them, we'll worry about ownership and repayment later."

One of the Petro in the back raises his hand and Sam lifts his chin, raises an eyebrow in recognition. "_Poto mitan_," the guy says, and he sounds nervous even though he's standing tall, solid in the face of others moving as far away from him as they can in the press of people.

"Jeremiah LeRoux," Sam says, and Dean feels a moment of sheer disbelief that his brother can pull up a name like that, until he realises that his loa might be helping him. Ogou chimes in, reminding Dean that Jeremiah's one of his, has kept watch over Sam and Dean in the Quarter more than once. "I recognise you. Go ahead, speak your piece."

"_Poto mitan_," Jeremiah says again, clears his throat. "We have -- there's a stockpile of boats, over 'cross Franklin. We got as many as we could last week. They ain't nothing special but they'll do to help." Jeremiah looks at Dean, shifts under Dean's surprised gaze, and says, defensively, "_Poto mitan_ and Simbe said water. We got ready for water."

Dean can't see Sam's face but he bets Sam's feeling shell-shocked. Dean would himself if he wasn't so proud of his people; they had faith, they listened, they acted on the warnings. He grins at Jeremiah, a lip-parted, teeth-bared kind of smile, and the tension leaks out of Jeremiah's shoulders at the obvious approval of his _papalwa_.

Sam nods, sharply, but doesn't say anything else about it. "Anyone who has experience on boats, or if you want to assist with rescues, see Dean. I need a few people to run some errands, half a dozen of you willing to speak for me. If that's something you're comfortable with, come see me."

A moment of silence and then Dean lifts one hand, points toward the door and calls out, "Out front, people!" and turns Sam around, pulls him close and kisses him hard, bruising. "What are you gonna be doing?" he asks, quietly, breath to breath, so close to Sam that his lips brush across Sam's as he speaks.

"Tell you later, _papalwa_," Sam says, just as quietly but with a crooked smile that drips cruelty. "Don't worry, you'll approve. But I'll be outside in a few minutes. Save a spot on a boat for me."

Dean immediately shakes his head. He doesn't want Sam out there, doesn't want his little brother to see the things Dean's expecting to find. Even more important, though, is Sam's position, and it gives Dean the excuse to put his foot down and say, "It's not safe for you, no. You're the _poto mitan_, you're too important to put in that kind of danger."

Sam's eyes shine with the madness of Ge-Rouge and he murmurs, "This might be more your city than mine, but we're bound, Dean. It's mine, now, too. And so help me _Bondye_, you will not keep me from doing this."

"I tell you which boat," Dean finally says, after a good three dozen people have tramped outside, Rita holding court in the kitchen and Emil already telling others where to move the furniture. "I tell you where to go and who to go with. And Danny stays in touch with Ogou. The whole time, Sam."

"The whole time," Sam agrees.

Dean lets out a breath, tilts his head back and looks up at the ceiling. "You're gonna be the death of me," he mutters. "Fine. Come outside when you're done."

He turns to leave but Sam grabs his wrist, tugs Dean back and kisses him, soft and gentle enough to send shivers down Dean's spine. When they part, they don't say a word, merely look at each other, but they've had an entire conversation in that look.


	12. Monday, August 29, 2005 - Part Three

Dean's got Tony taking notes on his left and Jeremiah standing on his right, shifting back and forth on his feet, uneasy in the presence of two Petro _konfians kays_. Still, Dean doesn't let him move, doesn't acknowledge him. Instead, he divvies up the crowd into groups, sending a few pairs off to find a good place to launch the boats from before they all split up.

When everyone apart from Tony and Jeremiah are ensconced in their own conversations, Dean turns to his Petro, one of the Petro who listened to Sam and took the loa's warnings to heart. He studies Jeremiah, inhales to get a sense of him, and then says, "Sam's going out on a boat. I want you to stick with him."

"Is that safe?" Tony asks before Jeremiah can get past his apparent shock to make words appear from out of his throat. "Dean, I know he's got enough power to run circles around us but should he really be going out there?"

"I don't like it either," Dean says, and he knows it's clear from the expression on his face just how _much_ he doesn't like it. "But this is Sam's city just as much as it's mine and if he isn't out there helping, he's gonna do something much more stupid when none of us will be around to keep an eye on him. Jeremiah," and the vodouisante straightens up, practically snaps to attention and fixes his gaze on Dean. "Sam's with you. I trust you with him. Don't make me regret that."

Jeremiah pales, has to swallow before he can say, "I won't, _konfians kay_."

Dean keeps an eye on him a moment longer, then flicks his eyes to the door as Sam comes outside surrounded by seven or eight Petro who scatter in different directions as soon as their feet hit the ground. Brigitte's at Sam's side; the two of them are talking and they pause at one point as Sam traces out some kind of symbol onto the back of her hands.

"Erzulie Dantor's going to keep in touch with my rider," Dean tells Jeremiah, though he's watching Sam. "If anything goes wrong, I'll know. Not," he adds, "that it will. Right?"

"Right," Jeremiah says, nods. He blanches when he follows Dean's gaze and sees how close Sam and Brigitte are -- not, Dean thinks, at Sam, but at Brigitte. It makes Dean wary, his caution only deepening as Jeremiah takes one step back, angled a little toward Dean, when Sam and Brigitte join them.

Dean looks at Sam, raises an eyebrow and tilts his head in Brigitte's direction, a silent question.

"Brigitte's going to help Tony with logistics," Sam says, eyes flicking between Dean and Tony. "If that's all right with you, Tony."

Tony opens his hands out in front of his chest, says, "I can definitely use the help, and Bondye knows Brigitte's got a good mind for organisation. You're doing me a favour, here, _poto mitan_."

Brigitte grins, inclines her head at Tony, and it strikes Dean that him and Sam, they've never gone to Charleston, never met Brigitte in her own territory. There has to be a reason -- Sam has a reason for everything he does, probably even which sock he puts on first -- but now's not the time to ask, even as much as Dean wants to. Instead, he puts a hand on Jeremiah's arm, tells Sam, "You'll go with Jeremiah. And you'll keep in touch. Swear it, Sam."

Jeremiah looks a little shocked that Dean's speaking to Sam like this but Tony and Brigitte exchange glances and smiles.

"_Don't worry_," Ogou says. "_I got Danny-girl and you know I ain't never gonna let go._"

"_I can't believe you just told me not to worry_," Dean snaps back, though the tone lacks any heat, any anger. "_I'm sorry, have you met me_?"

Sam snorts; Dean pins narrowed eyes on Sam. "I will," Sam says. "My hand to _le gran met_."

Dean lets out a whuff of air but accepts Sam's oath. The five of them head out of the Marigny, slowly following the other Petro to what has been scouted out as the best staging area.

\--

There's a whole crowd at the St. Claude Avenue bridge by the time Dean, Sam, and the three with them arrive. It's chaotic, of course, but Brigitte strides into the middle of the mess, sticks two fingers in her mouth, and lets out a whistle that has Dean flinching with the pitch as it rattles his bones.

Silence falls instantly; Dean looks at Sam, who grins and murmurs, "She might only be five feet tall but she's terrifying when she gets going. Just watch." Sam tilts his head back at Brigitte and Dean snorts but follows his brother's direction.

"We got a fucking mess out there, people," Brigitte starts off. "Some of you're headin' to the the Lower Ninth, some to Gentilly, and those that can handle it and don't mind a longer trip, head out to NOE. Tony has a sign-out sheet; make sure you got your name on there and let us know which way you're headin' before you leave. Two to a boat, as many trips as we can until it ain't safe no more. Any questions?" A few people shake their heads, most just wait, and Brigitte looks the crowd of Petro over before she nods once, firm, and says, "Go on, then, git!"

Dean waits until most of his Petro are gone and sees Sam and Jeremiah off, hates to see Sam getting in that boat, wishes he could do anything to keep Sam on dry -- or at least dry-ish -- ground, but knows it would be worse than a fool's errand. Sam's stubborn on the best of days; this is nowhere near the best and he's Dean's _poto mitan_ besides.

He lets out a deep breath, turns and takes stock of the activity on the bridge. There are still a few boats left and they've gathered a crowd of non-vodouisantes, probably other residents of the Bywater or the Marigny, maybe a few of the luckier or more desperate from flooded areas who found high ground and made their way here. Dean weighs his options and glances over at Brigitte and Tony. Tony's going over the lists in his hands but Brigitte looks up at him as if she can feel the weight of his gaze -- maybe she can -- and then sidles over.

"What you thinking, _konfians kay_?" she asks, voice low and quiet.

"First, that my name is _Dean_," he says, half a mutter. Brigitte grins, waits, and Dean sighs, goes on. "We have extra boats; they look like they could use something to do."

Brigitte shrugs, says, "What d'you need my permission for?"

"_Fuck, but she's irritating_," Dean says, and as Ogou's laughing at him, Dean strides over to the knot of non-vodouisantes.

One man steps forward, lifts his chin up as he faces Dean straight-on. He's tall, wet with sweat and has a good dozen mosquito bites on his arms that are too damp to scab over, but his shoulders are a straight line and he's practically standing at parade rest. "See you got some extra boats, there," he says, hints of a more Cajun accent in the lilt of his words than the typical New Orleans Creole cant. "Anyone else comin' to put 'em to use?"

Dean meets his eyes, lets Ogou meet them, too, and finally says, "Free for use, man. I'm Dean," and offers his hand.

"Jonnie," the guy says, takes Dean's hand and grips it tight.

"Army?" Dean guesses.

Jonnie gives Dean a half-smile, shadowed with the same kind of look John gets, sometimes, when he's half a bottle deep. "Marines," Jonnie says. "Supposed to be in the middle of three weeks leave before I catch back up with my unit but this ain't the way I saw my vacation goin'."

Dean winces, says, "No shit. M'brother and me, we got people down here, but --." He trails off, trying to imagine what it must be like, coming back from the shitshow of Iraq or Afghanistan to party and relax in New Orleans for three weeks, get out from under suicide bombings and IEDs and landmines and be faced with Katrina and broken levees instead of overpriced drinks and great food and the best damn music in the world. "Anyway, just get your group there to check in with Brigitte and Tony before they head out -- she's the firecracker standing over near the guy with the clipboard."

\--

It's another half hour before Jonnie's crowd is heading off into the water. Most of them were Bywater residents, like Dean thought, but there were a few Wildlife and Fisheries guys and a whole crowd calling themselves the NOLA Homeboys brought their own boats around, too. Jonnie and Dean take the last boat for themselves, head off up Industrial and towards Pines Village and Venetian Isles.

Dean expects a mess -- expects but is so not at all ready to see. The smell is the worst: brackish floodwater mixed with backup from the sewers, gasoline and rotted food and death, everywhere death.

"I've seen some shitty things, Winchester," Jonnie says, "but nothing like this. Fuck."

Dean draws in a deep breath and wishes he hadn't. "I don't know what the hell we're gonna do," Dean admits. "How does a city come back from this? Hell, there's _still_ water coming in the city and the mayor's having a fucking nervous breakdown somewhere. There should've been Coast Guard by now, FEMA, anyone, but -- nothing."

Jonnie takes a minute to reply and when he does, he sounds cautious as he says, "Look, I get that you don't think the way the rest of us do, and no offense, man, but you're white. 'Course you feel betrayed."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Dean asks, bristling. He expected a comment about the vodou, maybe that he's a civilian, not the colour of his skin, and even as Ogou's telling him to calm down and let Jonnie speak his piece, Dean's blood boils for a fight.

"Just, you know," Jonnie says, shrugging. He can hear Dean's tone, obviously, but since he's sitting in front of Dean, he can't see the look on Dean's face or the way Dean's hands are clenched tight into fists. "No one around here's ever really trusted the levees. You just wait, Dean. If it'd been upriver flooded with people in attics, they'd already have a plan and be airliftin' 'em out. But it wasn't the river levees, it was the lake levees, and all those breaches took out poor, black neighbourhoods. They've been trying to get rid of 'em for decades, even centuries, pushing black people into projects and flood zones, trying to get 'em out of the way so they can forget about 'em. About _us_. You think just because we're drowning that they're gonna change their minds? Naw, man. The Ninth, NOE, they'll be the last ones to get help and just you watch, they'll find a way to spin it. 'Oh, they should'a left, should'a got outta the city or down to the Dome.'"

All of Dean's anger dissipates, listening to Jonnie, sounding resigned but also firm, like he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's speaking truth. It's going to take some time to digest what Jonnie said so instead Dean says, trying to sound lighthearted, "I'm offended that you think I trust the government enough to feel betrayed by them. I may be white but they'd love to lock me up and throw away the key."

Jonnie snorts and looks over his shoulder. "If they'd lock you up, they'd kill a black man," he says, bluntly, then turns back, faces forward.

Dean feels like he's just been slapped.

\--

They stop at the first house with people on the roof -- three women around Dean's age and a couple of teenage boys -- but one of the women tells them that there's a group of older women a couple streets -- canals, now -- over. Dean tosses up a few bottles of water, some sunscreen and a couple t-shirts, and he and Jonnie head a couple blocks north. It grates on every nerve Dean has to leave that family on the roof; he grits his teeth and takes off his shirt, wrings it out and uses it to wipe off his forehead. He's slathered up with sunscreen but will probably burn; even so, the shirt's so soaked with sweat that it's more hindrance than help at this point.

He almost regrets his decision to take it off when they get to the grandmothers, though. Jonnie holds the boat steady while Dean jumps up onto the porch roof, tests the weight and his footing, and reaches up for the first of three women to help her down. The woman looks at him, takes in the vévé tattooed on his sternum. For a long moment, Dean thinks that she'd rather drown in her house than accept help from him. He wonders if it's going the same for Sam -- none of the others have tattoos so no one will know about them, but Sam's covered in signs and vévés; there won't be any mistaking his connection to vodou.

She finally makes a decision; Dean can see it in her eyes. She reaches out, lets Dean pull her from her home and deposit her in the boat. "Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you. I won't forget this." She wraps her arms around herself, looks down at the bottom of the boat, and doesn't say another word.

Dean wants to scream. He wants blood. Instead, he nods at Jonnie and they paddle for the next house.

\--

It doesn't really hit Dean until a couple hours later, but all the people they've either left supplies with or shuttled back to the bridge, they've been black. Maybe other people are catching Hispanics or whites or Asians but Dean glances over the growing crowd on the bridge every time they take a boatload back and there's a definite tilt towards one demographic.

Jonnie's right; these are the poor neighbourhoods of New Orleans, these are the black, immigrant, working-two-jobs-and-just-barely-making-it neighbourhoods. No one comments on Dean's skin colour -- white but getting progressively more and more red with exertion and sunburn as the day goes on -- but they don't have to. Dean's seeing it with every move of the paddle, with every slide of humid-damp skin against his, with every sight of every flooded-out home.

"_I've been a fucking idiot, haven't I_," Dean asks Ogou. "_Fuck._"

"_You an outsider in your own way, _cheval," Ogou tells him, "_but no one gonna know that by lookin' at you. Old white woman walking down the street, terrified of the loa, sees you on one sidewalk and someone like the _solda_ on the other?_"

Ogou stops there, but Dean gets it. Yeah, he's never fit in with the normal crowd, the middle class, and sure, he's become a member of a faith that people look down on and are scared of, and Bondye but his rap sheet's a mile long with outstanding warrants in twelve states for things worse than simple grave desecration -- he's still a white boy.

"_Sam_?" he asks Ogou, unsure what his question is, but the loa knows.

Ogou sighs, says, "_M' _trezò_ learnt this lesson a few years back. Ain't easy for him, neither, 'specially when people were too turned off by his colour to see all the power he had bound up in hisself. We might've known a _poto mitan_ was comin', but no one thought it'd be someone like him._"

Dean frowns, asks, "_Is that why he's having all these leadership challenges? Because he's white_?" Ogou doesn't answer, not right away, so Dean pushes him, says, "_Tell me._"

"_It don't make it no easier_," Ogou finally says -- an answer but definitely not the whole answer. "_Look, _cheval_. It ain't your choice what colour your skin is or what gifts you be born with. But you been reapin' the benefits of 'em your whole life, still are, always will. That's something you just gonna have to learn to deal with now you know._"

"_Also something I can use to my advantage_," Dean says slowly. His mind's already spinning ways to use this, what he can do to help the city, help his people.

It takes Jonnie saying, "Ready for the next load?" to get Dean out of his thoughts, to quiet Ogou down from making comments on everything passing through Dean's mind.

"Yeah," he says. "Let's do this."

\--

Dean and Jonnie spend all afternoon and evening in New Orleans East. When the boat fills up, they take people to the launching centre at the St. Claude Avenue bridge, drop them off in Tony and Brigitte's capable hands, and go back out for more. He doesn't see Sam once, would worry more if Ogou wasn't in constant contact with Danny. Ogou doesn't talk to Sam at all; whether that's because Sam's too busy with the other loa or because Sam refuses to talk directly to Dean's rider, Dean doesn't know and Ogou doesn't seem to either.

Still, when it gets dark and navigating the floodwaters becomes too dangerous, Dean jumps out of the boat with some relief, eyes scanning for Sam. He doesn't see Jeremiah's boat and when he starts walking towards Tony, the _konfians kay_ of St. Louis shakes his head.

"He's not back yet," Tony says before Dean can even ask. "We've been trying to raise Jeremiah on the walkie-talkies, but either they aren't answering or they can't." Dean pales; Tony is quick to say, "I'm sure they're fine, Dean. They're probably just out of range. If something had happened, we'd know, we'd all know."

"Yeah, that doesn't make me feel any better," Dean snaps. Tony swallows, steps back, and Dean can see Brigitte, on the other side of the road, look up and right at him, eyes narrowed. Dean sighs, rubs his forehead. "Sorry. I need to eat something. I'm worried. When was the last time you talked to them?"

Tony nods at Dean's apology. "They dropped off a boat-load 'bout an hour ago." Dean mentally calculates -- Sam and Jeremiah were working in the Lower Ninth, on the Outfall Canal side, so the trip back and forth should be shorter. They could be on the way back with another boatload right now, that wouldn't be too out of the question.

One of the women brings Dean a plate of food, half a muffaletta and some cookies, nothing fancy but it's quick and filling. He scarfs down dinner and keeps an eye out for Jeremiah's boat.

\--

It's close to midnight by the time Jeremiah's boat creeps out of the darkness and a person jumps out to help secure it to the bridge. Dean's walking down immediately to help and scans the faces, scans the contents of the boat. Close to a dozen children crammed in as tight as they can be, no food, no water, no blankets, no bug killer, no Sam.

He helps the kids get out, sends them up to Tony and the others, and when they're out of hearing range, when it's just him and Jeremiah, he snarls out, "Where the _fuck_ is Sam?"

Jeremiah pales, seeing the expression on Dean's face, and lowers his head and eyes to the ground in the face of his _papalwa_'s rage. "He wanted to stay," Jeremiah says. Dean bares his teeth and Jeremiah's quick to add, "It was either the kids or their mom, grandmammy, aunties. Sam said to take the kids and the women all agreed. He said he'd wait. I left him all of our supplies. I'll go back out there at first light, I swear, Dean, but he wasn't coming back without everyone from that house."

Dean struggles to control himself. "Swear to fucking god," he says, voice low and heated, "if anything happens to him, I will rip you apart with my bare fucking hands. Got it?"

Jeremiah flinches and nods, says, "He said to tell you -- _mo lemme t'oi_? And not to forget about his promise. I'm sorry, _papalwa_, I _am_, I swear, but he told me to go."

"He's always been kind of an idiot," Dean says, and he claps Jeremiah's shoulder, hard enough to hear. Sam's message warms Dean from the toes up, and the reminder of Danny and Ogou staying in contact the whole time, that goes a long way to calming Dean down -- not entirely, of course, but a long way. "Not your fault, man. Sorry. I'll take it out of his hide tomorrow."

Jeremiah stares as if he wants to argue, but Brigitte comes up, cautious, and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Get some food, _repozwa_," Brigitte tells Jeremiah. "You're probably hungry. And let Jonnie know where he and Dean are picking Sam up in the morning." It's a clear dismissal; Jeremiah takes the cue and leaves, ducking his head in a sort of bow as he goes. "He had to obey," Brigitte reminds Dean. "Time to time, a few of us _konfians kays_ can talk sense into Sam when he's willing to hear it but the only one who's ever had any success arguing with our _poto mitan_'s you."

Dean snorts, mutters, "Too stubborn by far."

Brigitte hesitates -- the first time Dean's _ever_ seen her hesitate -- and says, slowly, "Less to do with his stubbornness, though he has plenty of that."

"Then what is it?" Dean asks, eyes narrowed as Brigitte meets his gaze, holds it. Her lip curls, body language saying that she's not afraid of him, that she's not going to back down. Dean respects it even as he takes a slight step forward, asserting his dominance. "How come none of you figured out how to argue with him, get him to listen? You had years before I showed up and Sam's not that hard to understand."

"He's our _poto mitan_," Brigitte says, "and we love him for it. We've tried, Dean, but there's only so far we can push when Sam's word is law. You're his _solèy_, his anchor, his loa-damned world -- his older brother," she adds, watching with sad, all-too-knowing eyes as Dean flinches. "You know him better than any of us ever have or ever will and you mean more to him than anything or anyone else on the entire fucking planet. Of course he'd give you more leeway. So when one of your own _repozwa_ comes here, faces you angry like this, because of Sam? It ain't your job to chastise him for something he can't control." She pauses there, takes stock of Dean and nods, apparently finding the beginning of an understanding in Dean's expression. "You're the bridge between your people and our leader. Bridges ain't a thing that should be feared. Hear me?"

Dean makes a noise in his throat, glances over at Jeremiah, sitting on the ground, shoulders hunched in, as he picks at the sandwich on his plate rather than eating it. "You're right," he says. "I," and he stops there, runs his palm over his forehead, wipes off the few beads of sweat gathering on his upper lip. "You're right," he says again.

Brigitte grins, pushes lightly at Dean's shoulder. "Go get some sleep, _papalwa_. And take the boy with you," she says, tilting her chin in Jeremiah's direction.

As much as Dean wants to argue, he won't, especially with the mulish set to her jaw -- Dean knows exactly where she picked that up from. "Tell Jonnie to meet me back here half an hour before sunrise," he says. "And get some sleep yourself."

"You telling me that as the head of the Petro?" she snaps.

"No," Dean says, frowning. "As a friend. Because even though I don't know you very well, I'm pretty sure that's what you are -- if not to me, then at least to Sam."

Brigitte's eyes gleam as the tense lines around her mouth soften. "I ain't never gonna be afraid to speak truth at you, Dean Winchester. If that's your definition of a friend, then sure, I think we're there already. Now git; sunrise is just around the corner."

\--

Rather than going all the way back to Dauphine for the few hours he has to wait, Dean -- Jeremiah in tow -- stalks to an unflooded Bywater safe-house for the night. The safe-house isn't usually occupied, they keep it open for short-term renters and visiting vodouisantes, but there's a bed and a generator and a few other people staying there now. Dean gives Jeremiah a sharp nod when they arrive and Jeremiah scurries off to join the others. Dean would be amused by how fast Jeremiah moves and the looks the others give him, but Dean's still too full of worry for and anger at Sam. 

After a few minutes of pacing, fury riding his veins like it might be a loa, Dean heads for the stairs and ignores the silence from the others as they watch him leave. He makes his way to an unclaimed bedroom and slams the door behind him, wanting nothing more than to go back outside, find a bar, and pick a fight. Instead, Dean strips down to his underwear and collapses onto a bed. It feels strange to be lying down without Sam next to him; Dean hates this feeling, as if he's incomplete and yearning for his other half, alone in a very large world when usually he has Sam right there, always within distance of his fingers, his mouth.

"_Just means you love 'im_," Ogou says. "_Ain't no shame in that_, cheval. _How many times I gotta tell you_?"

"_At least once more_," Dean snarks back. "_I feel like an idiot. I mean, how the fuck am I supposed to sleep tonight? Sam's out god knows where, doing god knows what, with god knows who. He should be _here."

Ogou snorts. "_Shoulda, woulda, coulda. None o' that makes a lick o' difference to the _poto mitan_, an' you oughta know that by now._"

Dean rolls over, back to the door, but feels defenseless. He rolls the other way, facing the door, but Sam's supposed to be behind him, a long line of heat against his back, and there's nothing there, just fetid air. Dean shifts onto his back and stares up at the ceiling but this is how Sam likes to sleep best, Dean on his back and Sam curled up around him, cheek on Dean's chest or face buried in Dean's neck, close enough that Sam can hear Dean's heart or feel his pulse and the slow, gentle rhythm of Dean breathing.

"_What's he doing_?" Dean asks. "_Can you tell_?"

"_Naw_," Ogou says. "_He blocked off. But Danny's with him and she say they doing just fine. Rest easy, _cheval_. She won't let anything happen to him_."

Dean grunts. "_Strangely enough, I don't find that very reassuring._"

"_Sleep_," Ogou says. "_I'll make sure you're up in time._"


	13. Tuesday, August 30, 2005 - Part One

The morning of August 30th dawns bright, already muggy. Heat pours off of the bridge and makes the air shimmer. Dean doesn't give a damn.

Jeremiah told Jonnie where he left Sam last night, so Jonnie and Dean are the first ones out in the morning, paddling through the floodwaters to the house where Sam spent the night. Dean keeps his eyes focused ahead of him and doesn't look at the dead bodies in the water.

He can't -- this is _America_ and yet he's hearing the baying of hungry dogs and people shouting, passing news along from rooftop to rooftop under a clear sky that only promises more heat and more humidity. It turns his stomach, nearly has him vomiting when he sees a ball of red ants turning furiously in the oil-slicked water.

Dean does his best to ignore it all and, the second they get to the house where Jeremiah left Sam, he climbs onto the roof, doesn't even wait for Jonnie to secure a line to the building. Sam is right there, waiting for him. Dean grabs his brother, clings tight, kisses him furiously and then, when they break for air, slaps Sam upside the back of his head. "Don't you _ever_ fucking do that again, do you hear me? _Never_, Sam, or I'll kill you myself."

Sam smiles, that tired, sad smile Dean's seen so many times since San Francisco, and says, "I missed you, too."

His voice is rough and gravelly; Dean steps back, looks his brother over. Sam's burnt, but everyone is, and drenched in sweat, though, again, so is everyone else. His tattoos are cracked and scabbed over, every single one of them. Dean's never seen that before, not during the whole thing with Dennis, not even yesterday when Sam's base of power shattered. He gives Sam a narrow-eyed look, glances at the women that Jonnie's getting into the boat, and asks, quietly, "What the fuck were you doing all night?"

Sam shakes his head. "Later," he says. "When there aren't so many people."

A serious vodou thing, then. All this trouble, holding court with five women they don't know, and Sam's too busy doing vodou things to rest. Dean sighs, rolls his eyes, and helps the last of the women into the boat, making sure Jonnie hands over food and Gatorade. Once Sam's in the boat as well, sipping on a bottle of water, Dean climbs in and tells Jonnie to get them back to dry land.

"_Poto mitan_ told us you was gonna come," the oldest woman says, eyes sharp despite what she's gone through. "He said you was gonna come soon as it was light 'nough, and sure as anything, here you is."

Dean glances at Sam, who's looking out over the neighbourhood while his fingers roll the bottle cap open and closed again, over and over, then back at the woman. "Are you," he starts to ask, then stops, unsure how to phrase so blunt a question.

She smiles, reaches out and pats Dean's knee. "Naw, sugar, but we know what he is, what you is. And while them that live upriver might fear y'all, ain't one of you ever done nothing to hurt them that ain't be deserving it. Y'all claimed this city and you keep it 's best you can. Oh, sure, stories go 'round, but you ask anyone down here whether we count on y'all or the government when things like this happen? No one gonna tell you the president be coming in a boat to pick you up."

"Thank you," one of the other women says. She's just lost everything and she's thanking them, her back straight, tears etched on to her face like she was born with them, she's been crying so much.

Dean doesn't know what to say. '_I'm sorry_' seems so little and he can't say he understands because his car's parked away from this mess, just fine, and Sam's here, their dad's okay. '_We're just trying to help_' seems like too little, too late, and Dean spent thirteen hours yesterday paddling up and down New Orleans East -- the grandmother's right, the government won't help these people. Hell, Jonnie's right: some of those Washington types might even be glad these neighbourhoods have been wiped out.

"You're welcome," he finally says. Sam reaches over, takes hold of Dean's hand, and squeezes tight. Dean squeezes back, leans over and rests his head on Sam's shoulder, closes his eyes.

\--

Dean waits until they've dropped the women off, makes sure they're a little away from everyone else, and asks, "What were you doing all night, Sam?"

Sam looks distracted, staring out over the water. He turns to look at Dean and the loa are moving too fast in his eyes for Dean to keep track of, too fast to recognise any of them, though Danny's perfume is lingering all over Sam. It must've been thick last night to hang on this long, especially with all the sweat covering Sam's skin.

"I put most of the boundary wards back up," Sam murmurs. "I couldn't leave them down any longer, not with everything else going on. A few of them are still down but those loa are, well. Definitely not tamer. More willing to listen."

"You couldn't wait?" Dean asks, just as quietly, but forceful, letting fury thread his words and give them steel. "Sam. Fuck. I would've helped. Any of us would have. You could have pulled the power from me; I didn't feel a thing last night." He pauses, thinks back, then swears. "Sam, was it Danny? She push you into this?"

Ogou inhales as Danny's perfume coils thick around them, enough that one of the women they dropped off, the grandmother, looks over, sways as she smiles.

"That woman's mama was one o' mine, _masisi_," Danny says. "She asked after me, so I kept them comp'ny last night and I decided it was time."

Dean snarls at her, feels Ogou growl at him for the way Dean's treating Danny. "Then you were wrong," he hisses. "Can't you see how tired Sam is? How he shouldn't have had to do that on his own? There are other people here willing to help, Danny," he says. "It's not just Sam by himself anymore."

Danny gets in Dean's face, baring her own teeth. He's so used to the slyly flirtatious turn of her neck and the slow smooth drawl of her voice that he forgets, sometimes, that she's Petro as well. "You listen here, _masisi_," she snaps, "and you listen well to Danny. I never had the talk with you I promised, all that time ago. Might be I was wrong to leave it, to trust you."

Dean cuts her off, full of rage despite the way Ogou's trying to get him to calm down, trying to speak past the confines of Dean's mind to Sam. "If you trusted me, you would have waited," he says, and he's surprised he's not _vibrating_ with how angry he feels right now. "If you trusted _Sam_, you would have waited. There was no reason -- _no fucking reason whatsoever_ \-- that you needed to put up boundary wards in the middle of the god damned night by yourself. No one was there to help, no one was there to fucking watch your back, _nothing_. That's not pride, Danny. That's _stupidity_."

He pauses, waits, and sees her eyes soften as she reaches up, cups his jaw with her palm. Dean turns into her touch, can't not, but instead of kissing her skin, he bites -- _hard_.

Danny hums, the tension of her attitude spiralling outwards into pleasure, judging by the thick waft of perfume that clogs Dean's nose. She tilts her head, smiles at Dean, and purrs, "At least you ain't shy. Take my _chwal_ home, _masisi_. And remember something: my _chwal_'s learnt his lesson about letting the loa run roughshod over his people. You think he ain't taken that to heart hisself?"

Dean blinks, gingerly pulls his teeth out of Danny's flesh only to lick over the indents he left behind. "He let you?"

"Take him home," Danny says again, leaning forward, rubbing her nose against Dean's cheek before her tongue slides out, licks across Dean's lips. "Put that cock o' yours I love so much to good use. Won't take much to wear him out but you right, he needs sleep."

She kisses him, hard and wet, demanding the way she's been since the first time in the bayou and every time since. Dean gives into her and he surrenders eagerly, letting her take what she wants until she's gone and the scent of her perfume fades, leaving nothing behind but the smell of water and death. Dean puts his hands on Sam's shoulders, pushes Sam away from him no matter how much that's the last thing he wants to do, and looks his brother square in the eyes.

"You let her?" he asks. "You agreed with her decision?"

"It couldn't wait," Sam says, putting his right hand over Dean's hand, the one on Sam's left shoulder. "With the problems I've had controlling myself, controlling the loa and what we have coming? I couldn't risk leaving everything down another day, even another twelve hours." He stops there, takes a deep breath, and says, "I wanted to wait. I wanted help. I'm not sorry they're up but I am sorry you weren't there."

Dean searches Sam's eyes, doesn't find anything but honest regret, so he sighs, lets go of Sam after one last squeeze. "Come on," he says. "Let's get you home."

The slightest hint of Danny's scent tickles Dean's nostrils and Sam grins, Danny riding high in his eyes. "What're you gonna do with me when you get me there?" Sam asks.

"Get you in bed," Dean mutters. "Maybe even let you take a nap."

Sam laughs as they head for the Quarter.

\--

They walk back hand-in-hand to the house and Dean stops in the middle of Dauphine, breathes a sigh of relief when he sees the plywood's been taken down, sees every window and French door flung wide open, curtains fluttering in the half-hearted breeze coming off the river. As much as seeing everything boarded up had hit home the seriousness of the situation, seeing things back to a semblance of normality gives Dean hope that they'll all get through this, the hurricane and her aftermath.

He's grinning, he knows, standing there like a fool and smiling at the house that he's almost come to think of his, as _theirs_.

"It is," Sam tells him. Dean tears his eyes away from the third-floor gallery and looks at Sam, raises an eyebrow in question. "Ours, I mean."

"I'm not even going to ask how you knew exactly what I was thinking when I wasn't even talking to Ogou," Dean says. "What do you mean, it's ours? This is yours, Sam -- the _poto mitan_'s home in New Orleans."

Sam squeezes Dean's hand and says, "The Petro _konfians kay_ of the city has his or her own place, over in the Irish Channel. It's not empty, hasn't been since Mathieu died, but I don't know who's living in it right now. You can have it if you want; it belongs to you."

"That doesn't answer my question at all," Dean says, "and you know it." It's not that he wants to push, not with Sam being gone last night, not with what he's hoping they're about to do, but while Dean might let Sam, the _poto mitan_, have his secrets, he's going to poke and prod at Sam, his little brother, for information when it concerns him.

"You're my _solèy_," Sam says. He sounds a little guarded, voice a little tight, and Dean doesn't know why. "What's mine is yours. Obviously I can't change the house title since it's only mine because of who I am, but. Dean."

He stops there, shrugs one shoulder like that's enough of an answer for Dean to piece everything together. It is, because Dean feels blindsided. He remembers the first time Sam called him _solèy_, back when they were in town to deal with Dennis, and sparingly ever since. Dean's used it himself, once or twice, in conversation with other vodouisantes but he never asked if the term had repercussions, if there was anything he needed to know about it beyond what it said about the depth of their relationship.

Apparently there's more to it than Dean ever guessed -- a lot more.

"Are you saying we've been vodou-married?" Dean asks, lightly, "because, bitch, I didn't even get flowers." Sam gives him a cautious look and Dean adds, "Didn't get a honeymoon, either, now that I think about it. You are sure as _shit_ not treating me right, here. I want cake -- no, pie. Wedding pie, Sammy."

"It's Sam," comes the instant and automatic response, though Sam looks about as shell-shocked as Dean feels. "It's not --. I mean, it doesn't obligate you to anything. Just because I say it doesn't mean --. You aren't mad?"

Dean tilts his head from side to side, cracking his neck, and finally says, "A little ticked off that it took me this long to realise. Or for you to say anything." He thinks for a second, then adds, "You knew, even back then? Even after -- we'd just had a hell of a fight, Sam."

Hours after Dean had called Sam on his mutually-obsessive relationship with Marinette, when they weren't talking, and Sam had told someone who wasn't even one of them that Dean was _it_ for him, so soon even after California and the breaking of Sam's original trinity, after Savannah and the first time they ever had sex, even before he knew for sure that Dean and Ogou would fit as well as they do, both together and with him.

"We've always fought," Sam says. "We're brothers."

"And vodou-married," Dean says. He still can't quite believe it. "Fuck. Okay. Well. Now I'm _really_ taking Danny's advice. Come on, let's get inside. Might even make it to a bed if we hurry."

Sam looks at him, practically stares, and says, "Dean, are."

Dean cuts him off, says, "Everyone knows I'm yours and I figure the tattoo's a pretty good mark that you're taken but if you want a ring, I'll get you one. Later. After we fuck and take a nap; I'm exhausted." It looks like Sam's about to argue, about to apologise, even, and if there's one thing Dean doesn't want to hear right now, it's Sam taking back something that tells everyone in a nice, easy shorthand what they are to each other. He fists one hand in Sam's hair and pulls Sam close, tugging him off-balance enough that Sam's mouth is open when Dean fits his lips to Sam's and shoves his tongue inside of Sam's mouth, mapping out territory he already knows, territory that's _his_.

For just a second, Dean thinks that Sam might fight back, is gearing up to push Dean away, but then he groans, noise drawn up from his belly, and presses in closer, tighter. When he does, finally, pull away, it's only to gasp out, "_Bed_," before pressing his lips back to Dean's like he can't stop.

The overwhelming odor of Danny's perfume starts to rise around them and Ogou is filling Dean's vision with red and his mind with just what, exactly, he'd like to be doing with and to Sam and Sam's rider. It's almost impossible to pull away from Sam, to take Sam's hand again and tug him inside, off the street. The _badjikan_ and Rita are inside, standing in the doorway to the front room, but Dean snarls at them both as he pulls Sam past them and to the stairs.

"You know what to do," Dean growls at them, "so do it. And leave us the hell alone until we come back downstairs. _Konprann_?"

The _badjikan_ holds up his hands but Rita just lays a wolfish grin on Dean and says, "_Konprann, papalwa_."

\--

They stumble up the steps to their bedroom and by the time they get there, they're already half-naked, tripping over boot-laces and tugged-down jeans. Dean slams the door closed behind them and pushes Sam against it, stealing all the air from Sam's mouth with his tongue and teeth.

"Bed," Sam pants out when Dean pulls back, the urge to breathe too much to resist when black spots are dancing at the edges of his vision. "Dean, please. _Bed_. Need you -- need to get you in me. Need you to fuck me, Dean, please, c'mon."

"Fuck you against the door," Dean says, growl riding the edge of his words as he noses at Sam's neck and then bites, hard. The feel of his teeth in Sam's flesh goes right to Dean's dick; Sam turns limp and boneless against him, letting out a high, wordless keen. "Fuck you here and when my come's still dripping down your legs, get you on the bed and fuck you again. You'd let me, wouldn't you, Sam? You'd let your _solèy_ fuck his own come back into your ass? Shit, it's been too long since I've been inside you."

Dean doesn't know what's come over him, what's got him saying such filthy things, dirtier than he's ever been with Sam, but Ogou's riding him hot and heavy and he's still angry at Sam for last night, still so very relieved that Sam's all right, that his head's a muddled mess and all he can think of is Sam, being inside Sam.

"Please, please, Dean," Sam's begging, eyes closed and head against the door, baring his throat. It's such a clear invitation that Dean can't resist, digs his teeth into the other side of Sam's neck and sucks his mark into Sam's skin. "_Bondye_," Sam moans, dragging the word out through his teeth. "Yeah, Dean, like that. Please, need it, need _you_. Fuck me, come on, don't keep me waiting."

As much as Dean thinks fucking Sam against the wall is a brilliant idea, Ogou fights to get to the forefront of Dean's mind, says, "Cheval, _you gotta settle, this ain't you, push it back_," but Dean uses the moment of sanity to finish stripping them both. Ogou gets swept away in a tide of need and blood and magic and then Dean tugs Sam to the bed, throws him down. Sam lands with his legs spread, one hand already on his dick, and Dean follows, crawling into the space between Sam's legs and slapping Sam's hand away, back to the sheets.

"You're gonna come without touching yourself," Dean tells Sam, as he doesn't waste any time working one finger into Sam's ass. "Gonna come just from my dick, aren't you, Sam. Gonna come so hard just from me and fuck, it's gonna feel good."

Sam's arching up, hands fisted in the sheets as his pleading starts to deteriorate from begging into wordless moans and hisses, depending on how fast Dean's fingering him, how many fingers Dean has up his ass, when Dean grazes a blunt nail across his prostate. When Dean takes out his fingers and starts working his dick into Sam's ass, Sam lifts his hips and spreads his knees wider, toes curling into the sheet.

\--

It doesn't take long before Dean's fucking Sam hard and fast, murmuring such filthy things that he'd be ashamed of himself if he had any control over himself or if Sam wasn't so clearly turned on by it. Sam has his feet hooked around Dean now, is meeting Dean thrust for thrust, and his nails are drawing bloody furrows down every inch of Dean's skin they can reach. They've had sex bordering on frantic before but it's never rough like this between them, not unless Sam's being ridden by Karrefour. There's no sign of the loa in Sam, though, apart from the way that Dean can feel Ogou trying to swim against Dean's animal instinct and reach out to Danny, feels the barest hint of Danny reaching back. That's strange; Dean's never felt that happen before, like something's got the loa penned in, contained.

"Hold on for me, Sam, until I say, and then you can come," Dean tells his brother, and thank Bondye the bed's far enough from the wall that it isn't banging against it, as hard as Dean's fucking into Sam. "Told you, never needed to touch your dick, did I? Not with the way you love this, the way you're begging for it, for me."

"Please," Sam pants, practically sobbing. "Dean, let me, please, so close, wanna come, wanna feel you in me when I come."

Dean waits until he's close as well, then leans down, tells Sam, right in Sam's ear, to "Come right _now_, Sam."

Sam howls, head thrown back, sweat glistening on his forehead, his upper lip, as he comes. He's so tight around Dean's cock and Dean breathes out, "That's it, Sammy, that's it," fastening his lips to Sam's as he comes.

\--

They wait until Dean's gone soft and the come on Sam's stomach has to be itching before Dean pulls out and rolls over, lying next to Sam as he waits for his heart rate to go back to normal. When he feels like maybe he could move again if he absolutely had to, he grins, hint of embarrassment at some of the things he said in his tone as he says, "Hell of a honeymoon. Shit, Sam."

"You're telling me," Sam says. With a grunt, Sam rolls half on top of Dean, one leg and one arm thrown over Dean, face buried in the curve of Dean's neck. He already sounds half-asleep and Dean's a little ashamed -- but only a little -- at how proud of himself he feels, fucking Sam into exhaustion, getting Sam to actually sleep for once. 

"Take a nap," he suggests, gliding a hand over Sam's hip, fingers teasing downwards, behind, to feel the trails of come leaking out of Sam's ass.

Sam shifts, gives Dean better access, and murmurs, "Not if you keep doing that. Only fucked once, y'know."

Dean laughs, moves his hand up to Sam's back, tracing the knobs of Sam's spine. He's lost weight. "Get some sleep, Sam," he says, whisper-soft. He goes to get up, try his best to clean himself up although he's not sure how easy that's going to be, but Sam makes a disapproving noise and clings tighter to Dean. Guess he's staying, then. "All right," he says, and would never admit to letting his lips press a kiss to the top of Sam's head. "I'll stay. You sleep."

\--

Dean stays in bed for half an hour or so, until Sam's sleeping deep and even, lips parted and a tiny bit of drool coming out of one corner of his mouth. It's hard to leave Sam but Dean does, uses one of their discarded t-shirts and a bottle of water to clean himself up as best he can, though he knows he reeks of sex and sweat. With one look back, Dean heads downstairs.

Rita's in the kitchen when Dean trudges in for a bottle of water, juice, Gatorade, anything. He's not sure what she's doing, not until he follows her gaze out the window over the sink and sees the _badjikan_ kneeling in front of Erzulie's statue.

"_Poto mitan_ asleep?" Rita asks, and offers Dean a cherry Gatorade and a protein bar without looking at him.

Dean takes both and downs half the bottle as he's giving Rita a look out of the corner of his eyes. She's grinning, just a little, and Dean flushes, says, "Hopefully for a while. Why're you here, anyway? Were you looking for me?"

"Came to tell you some things, keep you up to date," she says, "but I passed all that on to Lady Zulie's horse just before you came back. Figured I'd stick around, make sure you didn't need anything from me." Watching their backs, that's what Rita really means. Dean's touched, again, by the level of protection his Petro feel for Sam. "I'll be heading back home now, _papalwa_." She finally looks at him, pleased smile on her lips, sly look in her eyes, as she adds, "Unless you going for round two and just came down for supplies."

Dean snorts and shakes his head. "Sam's gotta sleep while he can," he says, and walks Rita to the door. Right as she's leaving, Dean says, feeling awkward, "Thanks for -- you know."

Rita's grin comes back and she says, "Not a hardship, _papalwa_, 'cept I don't have anyone waiting for me at home to take the edge off after that. Y'all weren't holding anything back."

She takes in the look on Dean's face and laughs, waving at him as she heads back towards the Marigny.


	14. Tuesday, August 30, 2005 - Part Two

Dean settles in the front room, talking to Ogou and checking over lists of supplies and tallies of how many boat trips their people have taken, how many people they've rescued and the areas they've surveyed. He flinches when there's a knock on the front door; Dean hadn't been expecting it. He stands up and looks outside, doesn't see a car but that's not exactly a surprise. The Quarter might not be flooded but half the area directly around them is under water.

Dean goes to the front door, gun in his hand and Ogou riding just behind his eyes; there's no telling who's outside, whether it's one of theirs or a cop or a looter knocking to see if anyone's in this house. When the door's open, though, Ogou laughs and settles back down and Dean nearly drops his gun in shock.

"Dad," he breathes. "What are you doing here? How did you find us?"

"The _Times-Picayune_ had a story on their website," John says. He takes a damp, hurriedly-folded sheaf of papers out of his back pocket and hands them to Dean.

_Catastrophic_, the headline reads. _Storm Surge Swamps Ninth Ward, St. Bernard; Lakeview Levee Breach Threatens to Inundate City_.

"So you thought it would be a good idea to come down here?" Dean asks, incredulous.

John looks away, just for a moment, jaw clenching. He looks back to Dean, says, "I rode out the storm in Baton Rouge. I made it to Kenner this morning and a friend of yours brought me the rest of the way."

Dean frowns, says, "Friend of mine?"

"Hey," Colette says, appearing at John's shoulder. John shifts on his feet but doesn't move back or away from her. It's -- a little unusual, to say the least. Normally John stays arms-length away from everyone, more if he doesn't know a person, even _more_ if they're not one hundred percent 'normal.' "Sam wanted me to stop by as soon as I could. Since I was coming in, I thought I'd offer your father an escort." She pauses, looks over Dean's shoulder as if searching for someone -- Sam, must be -- and adds, "Hope that was okay."

The phones are down and radios don't reach from the Quarter all the way out to Kenner. Dean can see his father on the verge of asking just how the hell Sam got in touch with her and stopping himself.

"How'd he find you?" Dean asks.

"Saw the car," Colette says. "We had her in the garage during the rain but needed the space, so she's in the driveway." Dean opens his mouth to ask but it's like Colette can read his mind; she smiles and says, "Your _bebe_'s fine, Dean."

Dean frowns, and John asks, "So. Can we come in or what?"

"Yeah, sorry," Dean says, moving to the side, eyes flicking back and forth from his father to Colette. John lets Colette enter first and she unerringly moves for the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. John follows her inside, lets the door bang shut behind him, and, when he's near enough to Dean, pulls Dean close and gives him a hug that borders on painful, doesn't say one word about how much Dean smells or, more importantly, what he smells of.

"You're all right?" he asks, quiet but no less urgent for the volume. "You _and_ your brother?"

Dean clutches back. He knows it's irrational, that his father can't do much, one man amidst all this devastation, and he knows it's not the best idea in the world for John to be here, he'll find out more about vodou, he'll tell everyone that Dean and Sam are brothers, he'll find about Ogou and Danny and the incessant need Dean has to touch his brother. Still, even knowing all of that, Dean is taken aback by how _relieved_ he feels, having his father here, this close, scent of Old Spice and sweat, leather and gun oil reaching down into Dean's lungs.

"_Daddy's boy_," Ogou teases, and Dean ignores the loa to spend one more second holding his father tight.

"Yeah," he says, disentangling himself. "We're good. Sam's upstairs sleeping," and Dean gives the stairs a narrow-eyed glare. "Or at least I thought he was." Dean shakes his head and asks, "You want something to eat? To drink? We can head to the kitchen."

John searches Dean's expression, just for a second, before he cracks the smallest of smiles. "A beer sounds good, if you got some," he says.

\--

It's not until they get into the kitchen and John's standing at the counter, opening a bottle of beer, before Dean realises, oh shit, the statues in the courtyard. John sees them, must, because he sees everything, but he doesn't ask about them, just turns his back on the window and faces Dean.

"What can I do to help?" John asks.

Dean, sitting at the kitchen table, picking at the label on his bottle, shrugs one shoulder. "We have people out on boats, trying to help in New Orleans East and the Lower Ninth," he says. "Trying to get people down to Plaquemines, too. And there're others bringing in a steady stream of supplies from Baton Rouge. It depends on what you're up for."

John sets his beer down on the table, sits across from Dean. "I'd rather stay with you and your brother," he says. "You don't look good, Dean, and I can only imagine that Sam looks worse. Someone needs to take care of you two, keep you out of trouble, while you're trying to do all the rest of this."

"If you're here, then you're going to see things," Dean says, finally looking up and meeting John's eyes. "Vodou things. And. And more. Nothing you'll like."

"Just like I'm not keen on that tattoo you have?" John asks, nodding at Dean's chest. "Or the ones your brother has? What they mean?" He lets out a deep breath, says, "I know more than you think I do. I have for a while. And you're right, there's a lot I don't like about it. About what you and Sam are, about what you -- what you _do_. But you're my boys. So I'm here."

Ogou hums, says, "_Think he know as much as he say_?"

"_Dunno_," Dean says, answering Ogou at the same time he's resisting the urge to _christo_ his father. "_Not sure I wanna know, to be honest_."

Footsteps start clattering down the steps; Colette, probably, but there's another set as well. Dean looks over his father's shoulder, toward the doorway, and gets up. He leaves John at the table and heads for the hallway in time to hear Colette say, "We'll run everything through the Paginot house. Most people are over there anyway now and it's closer to Esplanade and Elysian Fields both. Plus, it'll give you two some quiet; you'll need it after you -- well. You'll need it."

She sees Dean, waves at him, and Sam says, "I'll be over in a few minutes to pick up what I need," before she lets herself out. Sam turns to Dean, gives him a tired smile, says, "I hear Dad's here?"

Dean glances at his brother and frowns; Sam's too pale for Dean's tastes, bruises and bitemarks all over his skin, and the circles under his eyes look like they're moving in to stay. "I left you upstairs to rest," he says. "Not send messages to Colette and coordinate our people."

"You know what it's like when you get pulled into the desert," Sam says, which makes Dean's blood run cold. He crosses the distance between them, eyes searching every visible square inch of Sam he can see, hands checking Sam's forehead, pressing against the vévés. "I'm fine," Sam says, though he doesn't stop Dean, just sighs and lets Dean finish the examination.

"What the fuck were they doing, pulling you in like that?" Dean asks, furious. "What couldn't wait?"

Sam gives Dean a searching look of his own. "Our people with boats found some Rada," he says softly. "A whole house of them who didn't get out of the city when we told them to. Apparently they got taken to the airport and when our transportation left, they doubled back and went home, along with some extras who weren't keen on leaving. They died yesterday." Sam swallows, adds, unnecessarily, in Dean's opinion. "Drowned in their house."

"So?" Dean spits out, furious. "They had their chance and they blew it. Fine. They got what they deserved."

"We need their _konesans_," Sam says.

His voice is so even, so composed, that it takes Dean a minute to realise what Sam's _really_ saying, then the rage disappears under a tidal wave of revulsion that has him tasting acid in the back of his throat. "You want to pull out their spirits so we can save their knowledge," he says. "How can -- are -- is that even _possible_? They've been dead for a day!"

"It's possible," Sam says. "Just difficult. But it needs to be done soon."

"No," Dean says, shaking his head. "No way. You are not doing this. Colette can do it if someone has to. But they aren't moving those bodies and you aren't getting back on another boat. No, Sam."

Sam smiles, just a little, and it's fey enough and foreign enough to take most of the wind out of Dean's sails. His voice, when he speaks, is full of loa, though none that Dean can pick out and name. "Only a Petro horse can do what needs to be done, Dean Winchester," he says. "A powerful Petro horse. So if it ain't this one, it gonna have to be you. Decide fast."

Dean gets to the trash can in the hallway just in time to vomit into it.

\--

John comes out of the kitchen at the sound of retching, carrying a dishtowel and a bottle of water. "Hope that's not from the beer," he says, waiting until Dean's done before handing over the water and towel. With his hands free, he takes Sam in a hug, one that Sam evidently hadn't expecting, judging by the way he flinches at first and hesitates before hugging back.

Dean rinses out his mouth, spits into the trash can, then wipes his face with the towel. "I have to go out for a bit," Dean says. "You'll keep an eye on Sam?"

"Think I can manage," John says. Sam's too flabbergasted to say anything, which only strengthens Dean's resolve. "Be safe."

"I will. Try and get him to eat something," Dean says.

He glances at the trash can and winces. "We'll take care of it," John says. "Just go so you can get back."

"Yessir," Dean says. He grabs his backpack, checks to make sure he's got water, another shirt and a pair of socks, a gun, a couple knives, some energy bars, the vials Colette gave him, then looks back at Sam. "I'll be back soon," he says, and leaves.

\--

Dean heads for the Paginot house, unsure of exactly what else to do. Ogou's crooning nonsense words in Kreyòl at him, some kind of kid's lullaby, and it's stupid how much that's helping calm the sudden rush of butterflies he's feeling.

"_I've never done anything like this before_," he tells Ogou. "_Please tell me you know how the fuck it's supposed to work_."

Ogou stops singing, coils in something that might be agitation. "_It ain't my usual thing neither_, cheval," the loa says. "_But you Karrefour's _mato_ and you got some of the _poto mitan_'s strength ridin' you, thanks to 'is power base breaking. 'Tween that and me and whatever them others tell you, you'll know._"

Dean snorts, heading for the Marigny and Elysian Fields as fast as he can without breaking into a jog. "_That's reassuring_."

"_You wanted reassurance_," Ogou snipes, "_shoulda asked a different loa._"

\--

There's a whole bunch of activity happening around the Paginot house when Dean arrives. Most of the people don't take any notice of him at first, not until he gets closer, then they either back away from him and give him a path to follow to the front door or they come right for him, touching his arms, his shoulders. The few Rada gathered here look unsettled, the Petro desperate, and then Colette's standing on the front porch shoulder-to-shoulder with Rita.

"Wasn't expecting you, _konfians kay_," Colette calls out. The Rada start to gravitate in her direction but see Rita, standing next to Colette with hands on her hips, grinning a bloodthirsty smile, and freeze where they are. "You here to help, or in place of the _poto mitan_?"

"In place of Sam," Dean answers, planting his feet at the bottom of the porch steps, unafraid to give Colette the higher position and ready to stand his own ground. "Where am I going and what will I need?"

Colette holds his gaze, then graciously inclines her head and steps aside, gesturing at Rita as she moves.

"I got what you need inside," Rita says. "I'll be going with you, if that's okay, along with a couple others."

"The more the merrier," Dean says. He climbs the steps, nods at Colette, and follows Rita inside.

\--

Dean was here yesterday but today the place looks completely different. Most of the furniture is stacked up and pushed against the walls, and there are boxes everywhere filled with water and food. A few people are sitting in the middle of the floor, holding clipboards and speaking hurriedly into walkie-talkies, a few more are helping move things around. Rita leads Dean past all of this and into the kitchen, right to the table.

"This is what Colette told us we'd need," Rita says, gesturing at the table. "She told us how many of us had to go and what we're supposed to do, but not anything about your role in this."

A pure black tablecloth covers the surface of the table and on top of that there are six glass jars and a pile of black rags, along with a knife covered in sigils and a bag of herbs. Dean tastes acid again, looking at those things, knowing what they're for but not _how_ they're to be used, not yet, and it's only through his own strength of will that he's not bent over and throwing up again.

"_I could take over enough to help_," Ogou says.

Dean's mind flashes back to that night at Ciel et Chanson, the way Lakwa told him that the loa wanted to protect Sam, wanted to ride him and do the painful things for him, so he wouldn't have to, and how Sam refused each and every time. '_If his hands gonna kill someone_,' Lakwa had said, '_his mind gonna do it, too, no one else's_.' This is the first time Dean actually understands that at a soul-deep level, because he tells Ogou "_No_."

Ogou snarls, says, "_Ain't weakness_, cheval. _This the first time you doin' something this serious. Might be better._"

"Fuck off," Dean says, practically growls, and Rita blinks at him. "Not you," Dean says, then exhales, spinning around, facing the living room and the few Petro who are staring at him. He bares his teeth and they all make a show of getting back to work. Rita touches his shoulder and Dean lets out another deep breath, rubs his hand over his face. "Sorry," he tells her through his fingers. "Ogou and I, we're just having an argument. Little disagreement. Sorry."

"No worries," Rita says. "You sure you're ready for this, _konfians kay_?"

Dean looks at her, looks at the table, eyes catching on the curve of those six glass jars. "No," Dean says, "not remotely. But I'm gonna do it anyway. We got six dead bodies waiting for us?"

Rita grimaces. "Nine," she says. "But three of them are just kids. Not that that makes it any better. But they don't know enough to -- to have to do this to them."

Dean's perversely glad because there is no way in hell he's ever going to be able to rip a soul out of a child. Still, three dead kids. That's bad enough.


	15. Tuesday, August 30, 2005 - Part Three

A group of four Petro leave the Paginot house: Dean, backpack slung over one shoulder and knife in one hand; Rita, carrying a small drum; Gabriel, a short, Hispanic-looking man who has the cardboard box with the jars and the cloth; and Patrice, tall, big but sturdy, not fat, who's got a stack of curse boxes in his arms. The people outside the house, Rada and Petro both, give them a wide berth, and Colette watches them go with dark, all-too-knowing eyes. Dean wants to stop and ask her if she's done this before, if she's seen it happen, how it feels; he keeps his teeth pressed together and his lips closed, following Patrice to the launching point.

It doesn't take them long to get there and there's a boat waiting for them. Dean doesn't recognise the person standing by it but he must be a vodouisante because he nods at Dean and stammers, "_Kon -- konfians kay_. Good luck."

Dean waits until they're in the boat and heading for the dead Rada before he says, "Please tell me they're not in NOE." He can't go back there, not after what he saw yesterday.

"Lower Ninth," Patrice says, eyes fixed on where he's driving the boat. "Down from Florida a couple blocks. Everything there's under, I dunno, eight, ten feet of water, somethin' like that. They're gonna have to raze the whole neighbourhood; nothing's coming back from what happened."

Hearing that jogs something in Dean's memory but he's not sure what, not until Ogou reminds him, "Tifi_'s girl. She lives 'round there, don't she._"

Rose. Holy shit.

\--

With that realisation still churning in his stomach, Dean stands near the back of the boat, faces the business district and watches as the high-rises start to shimmer in the heat. He can't look at the houses, can't listen to the cries of people begging for help or the whining of cats and dogs caught in trees and on rooftops, so he pokes Ogou and asks, "_Don't you think it'd be better if I knew I what I was doing before we started doing it?_"

"_You tell me_," Ogou says back. "_You gonna throw up again if I tell you_?"

"_Only one way to find out_," Dean says, "_isn't there_."

Dean blinks; he closes his eyes on the boat and opens them in the desert. Unlike last time, it's twilight, not full darkness, and there's no wind. Sand stretches out as far as Dean can see, smoke on the far end of the horizon, and five loa are waiting for him, standing across from him. Dean lets his eyes skip over Karrefour and the dwarf he assumes is Ti-Jean, nods at Ogou before leering at Danny, who waves a fan in front of her mouth, eyes cast downward coquettishly. The fifth loa is nothing but a grinning skeleton wearing a top-hat; the incongruity is off-putting.

"Lakwa," he says. "But you're guédé."

"Death's my domain, Dean Winchester," Lakwa says. "And these horses are _dead_. You wanna be pullin' any _ti bon anges_ out of 'em, you gonna need Karrefour to open the gate but me to find 'em."

Dean grimaces at that. "Fine," he says. "What do I have to do?"

"'S easier than you think," Ti-Jean says. "The ceremony itself, I mean. Just needs a lot o' pull behind it. Think you can do it?"

"I'm Ogou's _cheval_," Dean says, standing tall with his chin lifted in defiance. At the declaration, Ogou steps forward, machete tucked into the red sash around his waist. "I'm Danny's _masisi_." With a swish of her skirts, Danny takes one step forward, dipping into a slight curtsey before she snaps her lace fan closed and lets it dangle from her wrist. "I'm Karrefour's _mato_." The loa of the night crosswords cackles as he moves, one smooth step that barely stirs the sand around them. "And I'm Sam's _solèy_. I hold a portion of his power. I have pull, Ti-Jean. Tell me what I need to know."

The dwarf holds Dean's gaze as the smoke on the horizon starts to spread through the air. "Fair enough," Ti-Jean finally says. He limps his way to stand with the others, leaving Lakwa behind. "I said it's gonna be easy," Ti-Jean says, "but it ain't gonna be pretty. Take a pinch of the herbs in your hand and mix 'em with your spit; that's your power and you'll feel it stretch. The herbs go in the corpse's mouth. That triggers the connection that Samedi needs to bring the right _ange_ back. Once he finds the _ange_ and sends it through Karrefour to the horse, the corpse's eyes will open. It won't be alive, remember that, and don't let it stop you from taking that knife your _mamalwa_ packed for you and pushing it through the left eye. The _ange_ will come out and that's when you trap it in the jar. Make sure the cloth covers it tight and then shut it up tight in one of those curse boxes you brung with you. That's it."

Oh, that's it. Ti-Jean makes it sound so easy but it sounds _awful_.

"My _chwal_ done it before," Danny reminds Dean. "And he done it to one o' his friends. You sat in judgment of these Rada-_chwal_ but you ain't knowing 'em. Take a deep breath, _masisi_, and thank Bondye for small mercies."

"'Sides," Ogou adds, wrapping one arm around his wife's waist and pulling her close, "you volunteered. _Idyo_."

\--

Dean opens his eyes. He can't have been gone very long but Rita's in front of him, saying his name over and over again, "Dean. Dean. Can you hear me? _Dean_."

"I'm here," Dean says, fumbling to sit down and nearly falling as his knees give way. "Fucking -- shit. I'm here. I'm back."

"We're here as well," Patrice calls from the front of the boat. "Good timing, _papalwa_."

Dean was in the desert longer than expected, that's clear to see as he blinks away tears from his eyes and looks up to see a residential neighbourhood around them, quiet apart from the drone of insects and the sound of boats not too far away.

"You ready for this?" Rita asks.

Wanting more than anything to say no, Dean nods. "Let's get it over with and go back home."

\--

Gabriel ties the boat to one of the porch roof's support beams, then uses a flag-holder barely out of the water as a foothold to clamber on top of the porch roof. Patrice follows him up and Dean and Rita pass up their supplies. Dean gives Rita a leg up while Gabriel's breaking a window, then hauls himself up to the sound of crunching glass. He's not too sure the roof's going to support all four of them, but by the time he's standing on both feet, Gabriel and Patrice are inside the house.

Dean hesitates outside the window but Rita's behind him and the other two are picking their way through mud- and silt-drenched carpet, so Dean steels himself and scoots over the window ledge. The smell of rotting flesh and terror permeates the house like something tangible and it's all Dean can do to keep his eyes focused on the back of Patrice's head and his feet moving. He's almost glad he threw up earlier, now; there's nothing left in his stomach to come up, no matter how much he wants to gag.

"Said they got 'em all in a room for us," Rita says. "So it should be pretty quick. Then we can go home and curse the fact we won't be able to shower."

Dean looks over his shoulder at Rita and is glad to see she doesn't look as unaffected by this as she sounds.

"Found 'em!" Gabriel calls, and a moment later he's poking his head 'round the edge of the doorway. "Right where we were told they'd be."

He disappears again and Dean gestures for Rita to go ahead of him.

"Oh, no," she says, shaking her head. "This ain't a ladies-first type of thing. You're my _papalwa_, _you_ go first."

Dean rolls his eyes but does as directed, going through the doorway, ignoring everything and anything that isn't the sound and sight of Patrice and Gabriel moving, unpacking their things in the second bedroom. Dean swallows, then enters, and wishes he'd thought to bring some Vicks or something to put under his nostrils in an attempt to block out the smell.

Just like that, though, he remembers the vials Colette gave him. He'd opened them on the bus, sniffed them, and even a light inhale left his eyes watering with the overpowering smell of camphor and menthol. There were pieces of green herbs in the vials as well and Dean meant to ask Sam about them but he never did.

Figuring it can't hurt, Dean swings his backpack around to his chest and takes out one of the vials.

"What're -- oh," Rita says, behind him and looking around his arm. "Okay. That'll come in handy."

Dean uncaps one vial, dips his finger in enough to dig out a portion of the oily solid, then smears it under his nose. He inhales and can't pick out a thing, not death or sweat, not even the reek of camphor. He shakes his head, passing the vial back to Rita, and rezips his bag letting it drop to one hand.

"I will never get the hang of this shit," he mutters.

Rita laughs and the sound distracts Gabriel and Patrice from where they're stacking jars and opening boxes around the corpse furthest from the doorway. Rita shows them the vial and Patrice grins, gesturing for Rita to toss it at him. She does and he catches it, opens it, smears some under his own nose before passing it to Gabriel.

"Helps to have Rada sometimes, I guess," Gabriel says. He throws the vial back to Dean who shoves it in his back pocket. 

With the smell gone and the supplies ready, there's nothing holding them back. Dean goes over to the woman that Gabriel and Patrice are kneeling next to: a body bloated with water and gases, black hair cut close to her scalp, dressed in a cotton pajama set, tank top and shorts. He hopes she went fast and didn't feel it but she has no fingernails on her right hand.

"I want to do this quick and clean, then get out of here and go home," he says, tearing his eyes away from the dead woman and looking Patrice, Gabriel, and Rita over. "Any questions?"

"We're ready, _papalwa_," Gabriel says. He has a curse box open on his lap and Patrice is holding one of the jars in his right hand and a piece of black cloth in his left. Rita's sitting in the doorway and she starts tapping out a rhythm that Dean feels sync with his heartbeat, the rushing of his blood.

Gabriel hands over the baggie of herbs and Dean takes a pinch between his thumb and index finger. He spits onto the herbs, rubs his saliva into them, and can feel the beginnings of a connection to a part of him he's never had to name before. It's strange, like he's unraveling part of himself, and it's anchored to the spices in his hand; Dean does not like this feeling at all.

"_Ready_?" he asks Ogou.

"_Do it_," the loa replies.

Dean pries the corpse's mouth open and shoves the herbs down into her throat. The same motion yanks _something_ out of him and Dean grits his teeth because this must be his power that the spell's pulling on. He doesn't fight the tug, lets it unspool even though he wants to fight back, and as he's trying to get beyond how invasive this feels, how light-headed he's getting, the smell of fresh gravedirt wafts from the open mouth and the corpse's eyes fly open.

"_Fuck_," Patrice murmurs.

"Steady," Dean says. "Here comes _l'esprit_." Without hesitating, Dean lifts the knife and plunges it unerringly into the corpse's left eye, grimacing as the eyeball explodes into a mess of clear fluid, blood, and what looks like white jelly, releasing the hold on his power at the same time. Something else comes with all that liquid, too: something pale and glittering that starts to rise upward. Patrice scoops it into the jar and then puts the fabric on top, binding it in place with a rubber band. As if the jar is burning, he hurriedly sets it into the curse box that Gabriel is holding, and Gabriel slams the lid of the box shut, locking it.

The three of them look at each other, avoiding looking down at the dead woman whose body they've just mutilated, and Gabriel says, unsteadily, "One down, five to go."

\--

They do the other five just as fast, then get out of the house as quickly as possible.

\--

The first thing Dean does when he gets home is put on clean clothes, letting out a sigh of relief as he shoves the mud-covered jeans in a plastic bag. He then checks on Sam and John, makes sure they're still alive and haven't burnt anything down. They're both in one of the upstairs living rooms; Sam's going through some paperwork and John looks like he's been reading the last few printed issues of the _Times-Picayune_.

Sam stands up as soon as he sees Dean, worry and relief mingling on his face. "You're all right?" Sam asks, and Dean can see that his brother is fighting back the need to come over, to press himself against Dean and see every inch of Dean for himself.

"Got it handled," Dean says. "You're okay?"

"Dad made me eat," Sam says, rolling his eyes. "Practically spoon-fed me. Apart from that, nothing's happened."

Dean nods and tears his eyes away from Sam, though not without some measure of difficulty, to look at his father and says, "Thanks."

"Leftovers downstairs," John says, though he doesn't look up from the paper. "You should eat, too, Dean."

"Yes, sir," Dean says. He tilts his head in invitation and Sam looks from Dean to their father, then back to Dean again. Dean frowns, tilts his head again, this time in demand.

John turns the page of his paper and says, "Go on, Sam," making Sam jump and Dean shake his head, smiling.

Sam glares at Dean, then at John, and Dean watches as his brother opens his mouth, then shuts it, shaking his head. "Okay," he says, and follows Dean out of the room and downstairs to the kitchen.

\--

Once they're sure they're alone, they meet in a furious tangle of kissing and touching, Sam's hands on Dean's cheeks, Dean's hands splayed across Sam's back, under Sam's t-shirt. Dean pushes Sam backwards, up against the wall, and they nearly knock the phone off the hook; Ogou rides Dean hard enough and fast enough to catch it mid-air and put it back before he's washed away by the force of Dean's need for his brother.

Dean scrapes his teeth down Sam's neck and holds Sam's hips tight enough that there will be more fingerprint-shaped bruises covering Sam's skin tomorrow. He wants to rip at Sam's neck, the delicate flesh covering artery and vein and soft tissue, but he's already sunk his teeth into Sam's neck today, marked Sam and drank down his submission. There's so much of Sam's skin left, so much that Dean hasn't put his teeth on, so, instead of his neck, Dean lifts up Sam's shirt and picks a spot on Sam's belly, dropping to one knee and nuzzling before his digs his teeth in and _bites_.

"_Bondye_," Sam breathes. "Dean. _Fuck_."

It's not usually like this; for all that Dean likes to have the proof of his possession written all over Sam for everyone to see, he's not in it for the pain and neither is Sam. But right now, all Dean can think about is blood and meat and sex and Sam. He wants to taste Sam, to swallow him and drink him, to eat him _alive_, but even that realisation isn't enough to stop him. He picks another spot, licks it first, then starts to worry Sam's skin with his teeth, tenderising the flesh with his nibbles before he's ready to take and take and take.

Sam tries to push Dean's head away but Dean glares at him and growls, honestly _growls_, and says, "Mine."

"Yours," Sam says, "but not your meal."

"Mine," Dan says again, and looks back at the bruise forming on Sam's belly, in a straight line up from the open, bleeding wound. He licks his lips and starts to lean forward.

A wave of hot wind bursts out of Sam, twisting around Dean and pushing him back, sending him sprawling on the kitchen floor. The distance from Sam helps clear his mind and Dean scrabbles back even further, staring at Sam in horror. His brother's bleeding, has scrapes and blood and the beginnings of bruises up and down his entire chest, and when Sam takes one step towards Dean, Dean holds up his hands and shuffles back as far as he can, bumping up against the door to the courtyard.

"Sam," he breathes out. "Oh my god." Sam takes another step closer and Dean shakes his head, says, "Don't come near me, I can't --. I don't --. Jesus."

"It's okay," Sam says, soft and placating, and even as Dean's frozen, Sam crosses the rest of the space separating them and drops to his knees next to Dean. "It's okay," he says again, and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder.

The need from before comes back with a vicious rush, but this time Sam says, "Settle down, c'mon, calm down."

Dean buries his face in the curve of Sam's neck and pants, fighting back the urge to bite and rip and tear with every beat of his heart. Sam murmurs something else, something in French, maybe Kreyòl, and it's easier to breathe now, easy enough that Dean's heart stops racing and his breathing slows back to normal. He still wants to fuck Sam but he always wants to fuck Sam; thank _god_ he doesn't feel like eating his brother piece-by-piece now. Dean wraps his arms around Sam, holds him tight, nearly pulls Sam onto his lap, and just inhales.

Sam smells good: a hint of menthol but Danny underneath that, the faintest traces of her perfume, with an edge of Karrefour's lightning. He also smells of blood, though, and Dean finally lifts his head. "We should treat that bite," he says, unable to meet Sam's eyes. "Don't want it to get infected."

"We will," Sam says, and he kisses Dean's temple, lips lingering against Dean's skin. "Soon enough. But we should probably stay like this for a while, until everything balances back out."

Dean's eyes flick to Sam, long enough to see Sam looking at him with concern and worry and a whole lot of something that Dean shies away from after what he just did. "You know why I," he starts to ask, trails off when even thinking the words makes Dean want to throw up.

Sam presses his forehead to Dean's, lets their noses rub together. "I should have expected it," Sam says quietly, "and warned you it might happen. The sex this morning, I should have realised then what was happening. My power, split between two bodies -- it makes sense that it wants to be united again. This was just more extreme because you pulled on my power tonight, used some that Karrefour pushed into your body. Part of it was gone and so what was left, it wanted to -- to replenish itself, to be made whole again."

"And the best way to do that was to _eat_ you?" Dean asks, stunned. "Sam."

It makes him wonder about his brother, how Sam's kept it together for so long, has walked through Plaquemines and led rituals and participated in ceremonies. It also makes him think of what Lakwa said, the first time he rode Dean, back when Dean was chasing ghosts of his brother across the country. If Sam ever feels like this, feels like eating and taking and killing, it's no wonder even the loa were worried about his sanity at the beginning.

"It does different things to different people," Sam says, "but not usually like this. This is the first time you've ever really used the power of the _poto mitan_; I think that's why it was so extreme."

"So violent?" Dean asks.

Sam chuckles, just a little, and says, "Not violent. Just hungry. Food is very important to us and with Ogou as your _met tet_, it doesn't really surprise me that you wanted a little blood and flesh with your magic."

"I could've killed you," Dean says, quiet and wrung out. "I could've --. Sam. Why didn't you stop me sooner?"

"It's my power," Sam says. "It affects me, too. But you wouldn't've killed me. You would've stopped before then."

Dean stares at Sam and it takes a minute before he can asks, "How do you know?" He hopes he didn't sound like he was begging for comfort, for reassurance, but judging by the look in Sam's eyes, he failed miserably.

"Because I know _you_," Sam says. "Now. Do you want some _real_ food?"

\--

Sam gets Dean up and to the kitchen table, putting him in a chair and setting a bottle of beer and a bottle of Jim Beam in front of Dean. "Colette sent over some food earlier. Give me a few minutes to heat it up for you, okay?"

He doesn't give Dean any time to reply, just takes a covered plate out of the cooler and heads for the camp stove in the courtyard. Dean's left alone and he covers the silence by picking at the label on the beer bottle.

"_Thirsty work, earlier_," Ogou mutters, prodding at Dean to drink something after Dean's been staring at the table for at least a good five minutes. "_Ever think I might be wantin' a little something_?"

"_Ever think I might've needed your help_?" Dean snaps back. "_Where were you, huh_?"

Ogou huffs, coiling restlessly. "_You was playing with the power of a _poto mitan, cheval_. Ain't much I can do 'round that._"

Dean pushes the beer away, uncaps the bourbons and takes a couple long swallows. "_Will it be like this every time I draw on Sam's power_?"

"No," Sam says; Dean had been so focused on his conversation with Ogou that he hadn't even noticed Sam come back in. "You'll get used to it. I did, though it took a while. Having a trinity helped me with that; that's part of the reason we were so quick to name one."

Dean wants to ask about that but then he catches the scent of steak. Sam sets a plate onto the table and Dean stares. The meat is hardly cooked, red juice floating on the plate; Dean never takes his steak this rare but he's salivating at the thought of getting it in his mouth. Sam puts a knife and fork on the table and Dean grabs at them, curls one hand around the plate and bares his teeth at Sam.

Sam holds up his hands and grins, says, "It's all yours," and Dean digs in with rabid intensity.

\--

He makes his way through one steak in quick minutes, practically inhaling his food, and just when he's taken the last bite, Sam slides another steak on the plate. Dean stabs it with his fork and snarls at Sam until Sam backs away.

By the time Dean's feeling full and back to normal, ashamed of how he'd acted and ignoring how Ogou's trying to comfort him, he's not sure how much he's eaten, not to mention _what_ he's eaten.

"_Finally 'nough_," Ogou says, teasing. "_You gonna be sleepin' this feast off for a good long while._"

Sleep. Now that Ogou's mentioned it, yeah, Dean could sleep for about a week.

"Bed?" Dean asks Sam hopefully.

"We'll check on dad on the way," Sam agrees.


	16. Wednesday, August 31, 2005 - Part One

After a quick breakfast of cold-brewed coffee and cereal doused in a mix of evaporated milk and bottled water, Dean and Sam leave their dad snoring in a guest room and sneak out to head over to the Paginot house. There's more life on Dauphine today; a few houses are free of plywood and they pass a couple people who call out greetings but seem like they're carrying shock and broken hearts right underneath the forced cheerfulness.

Dean aches for them, aches for the city, but he merely says hi back, letting Sam tell them to head down to the Marigny if they need anything or want to help.

\--

It's still early, barely past sunrise, but Rita and Emil's house is bustling. Dean immediately heads for Emil and asks how he can help, watching with one eye as Sam joins the gathering of women around the kitchen table making -- something, _ouanga_, maybe, judging by the cage of crickets and the terrarium full of spiders.

Dean frowns, taking that in, but Emil leans in close and says, loud enough for Dean and Dean alone to hear, "_Poto mitan_'s calling down a hell of a lot of power. Does he -- we all know he's powerful, _papalwa_, but even Rita and I working in concert couldn't pull up enough in a day to set more than half of those in motion."

"_Don't know what you wanna tell 'im_," Ogou says, "_but even if the _poto mitan_ set 'em all loose at the same time, ain't gonna dent what he got._"

The odds that Dean's willing to share that with Emil are about as likely as he is to admit to getting chills, hearing it from Ogou. Of course Sam has power, he's the _poto mitan_ and Dean was there in the desert when he felt Sam's power bind itself back to his body, an immense amount not even counting the portion of it Dean holds. Ogou murmurs that the chunk Karrefour pushed into him, the _extras_, would be enough to send off three-quarters of those charms.

"He'll be fine," Dean says. Emil looks skeptical and Dean adds, wryly, "Trust me. If he's stupid enough to activate them by himself, he'll be okay. He's got more than enough."

Emil pales, just a little, but nods, taking Dean's word for fact. "More than enough," he mouths, and shudders, watching Sam.

\--

People come and go all morning, bringing in boxes of food and water, taking out tote bags filled with enough food, water, sunscreen, and bug spray to last three days. Dean's helping, isn't too proud to get down on his knees and dig into boxes, passing what he pulls out down the assembly line. A couple of the vodouisantes are singing, faster-paced songs that keep them all in rhythm, and the melody and words are easy enough that Dean's either humming or singing along in short order.

It feels -- he feels _good_. This is what he should be doing: helping, becoming a part of something bigger than him, or him and Sam, or even the Winchester legacy. It makes the thought of staying longer, settling down in New Orleans and making a home here not only something doable, but something he _wants_ to do, something he's looking forward to.

Dean's smiling to himself, humming and shelling out bottles of water, and then Dean feels the sharp tang of black magic Petro in the air. He stops, looks at Sam, who has his hands loose and steady at his sides, his head tilted to the left. The others around the table have frozen already. Nobody else seems to have noticed; Dean wonders how that's even possible, especially after Sam holds up one hand for quiet. A few people, the ones closest to Dean, follow his gaze, stop making noise as they turn to face Sam. The rest aren't paying attention, still singing and packing, until a sharp, biting wave of power, tainted with the smell of electricity and blood, sweeps through the air. The room goes silent, instantly; Dean stands up, knees popping, and strides to the kitchen, standing next to Sam and staring at Karrefour in his brother's eyes.

"What is it, Karrefour?" Dean asks, and if the rest of the room was silent before, it turns sepulchral when Dean addresses Karrefour.

Karrefour bares his teeth at Dean but his eyes are caught on something Dean can't see, listening to something Dean can't hear. "Hush up, boy, a'fore I make you."

Dean narrows his eyes but he doesn't say anything else, not until Karrefour's straightened his head, a scowl working its way onto his forehead. "What is it?" Dean asks, watching as Karrefour fades into the background and Sam shakes his head.

"Something I hadn't considered," Sam says. He turns around, looks at everyone watching him. Dean reaches out, takes Sam's hand and laces their fingers together, gaze focused on Sam as Sam bites his lower lip, then nods. "Brigitte," he says, and the Charleston _konfians kay_ steps forward instantly. "I want you to gather a dozen people who can work with the black magic Petro, especially Karrefour. They don't have to be his horses, just able to tolerate him. Round them up as quick as you can and have them meet me at -- send them to the Dauphine house. Dean, is there anyone from here you can think of who can help?"

"Rita," Dean says instantly. "Linglessou Basin-Sang's her rider; Karrefour won't bother her." Sam purses his lips but nods in agreement and Dean looks around, doesn't see her.

Emil clears his throat and Sam looks at him, nods at him. "She took Mama Brigitte's place on the bridge today. I can go get her."

Dean nods and Emil leaves immediately; Dean can hear the front door slam closed a scant moment later. Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, then looks at Dean and gestures with his head toward the door.

"Within the hour," Sam tells Brigitte, "but sooner is better."

"Understood, _poto mitan_," Brigitte says, her dark eyes flashing.

Dean waits for Sam to leave first but follows him just a step behind. As they leave, head outside and start jogging towards home, he can hear noise in the room pick back up, just a little, hushed voices breathing fear.

Dean waits until they're alone and nearing Dumaine before he asks, "What did Karrefour hear and why do you need horses who can handle him?"

"Something I'd forgotten," Sam says. "Something we should have thought of sooner."

"That's not an answer," Dean says as mildly as he can. He doesn't want to push Sam, definitely not when Karrefour's riding so close to the surface that Dean's nose is itching, but he needs to know. He's just volunteered Rita to whatever Sam's getting ready to do and she's one of his. He needs to know.

Sam's silent as they get to the house and go inside, ignores the _badjikan_ and their father sitting tense but together in the front room, and heads straight for the closet under the stairs. Sam takes out a large box -- dark wood, looks somewhere between mahogany and cherry, sigils and runes carved into each surface.

"Curse box?" Dean asks, mildly.

"Creation box," Sam says, carrying the box out to the courtyard, holding the door open for Dean and giving Dean a raised eyebrow. Dean sighs but follows, arms crossed over his chest as Sam takes the box and sets it down in front of the statue of Karrefour. Sam gives the statue a bow and then sits down cross-legged and opens the box.

"When the levees broke," Sam says, "and the water came, we should have realised. The cemeteries flooded, a lot of them, and even if the water didn't breach the tombs --"

"Any spirits left would have been disturbed," Dean finishes the thought, blanching at the implications. "_Bondye_. Fuck, Sam, there could be." He stops, can't even begin to imagine what kind of hauntings or visitations or supernatural phenomena might occur.

Dean looks back at his brother. Sam has a dozen pieces of clay, shaped crudely into hoops, sitting around Karrefour's statue. "_Should I know what he's doing with those?_" Dean asks Ogou.

"Poto mitan _making_ paket _to call down Karrefour_," Ogou murmurs, watching carefully, "_for the _chevaux_ who can stand the smell of a Petro bridle 'nough to carry 'em._"

Sam takes ribbons and feathers out of the box, threads a piece of ribbon through holes on each of the clay pieces, and ties in the feather before he takes out an exacto knife and starts scratching Karrefour's vévé onto one side of the clay.

With every vévé that Sam finishes, the power of Karrefour in the courtyard increases. Dean finally closes his eyes, soaking in the feel of Karrefour, the electric current curling around every one of Dean's limbs, caressing before it digs in sharp and claws his skin.

There's an audible hum in the air when Dean opens his eyes. He hadn't thought it had been that long, but the dozen Petro that Brigitte went out to find are huddled together near the door. Rita, in the front, looks tense, her eyes sharp as they flick from Sam to Dean and back again.

"You got the signs of Karrefour all over yourself, _papalwa_," Rita finally says, addressing Dean although she doesn't take her eyes off of Sam. "What's going on?"

Dean looks down, sees that his arms are covered in thin scratches. Some have split apart and are letting out dots of blood, but most are white and already starting to fade back into his skin. Dean looks up at Sam and finds Karrefour looking out of him, inhabiting Sam with his own easy brand of ownership even as he brims with cruel danger and bleeds out power.

"_Konfians kay_," Karrefour croons. "_Papalwa_ of the New Orleans Petro. Name this one."

With his eyes narrowed and the bleeding scratches throbbing with every beat of his heart, Dean takes one step to his right, putting himself between Karrefour and the Petro vodouisantes near the door to the kitchen. Even though Rita's the only one of the New Orleans Petro behind him, Dean can feel their relief like something tangible.

"Querida, my _mamalwa_ and second," Dean says. Rita lifts her head, careful not to challenge Karrefour at the same time as she presents herself. "Her rider is --"

"The Blood-Basin," Karrefour says, cutting Dean off. "She'll do. Step forward, _mamalwa_ of the New Orleans Petro." Karrefour grins at her, showing blood-stained teeth, and adds, "If'n you be brave enough." It takes a moment for Rita to respond but she does, taking a couple steps to stand next to Dean, back straight and chin high. Karrefour offers her the exacto knife, handle first, and then holds out his left hand. "Make it deep, _mamalwa_," Karrefour says with a smile, blood from his teeth dotting his lips and smearing around his mouth.

Dean frowns but doesn't disagree; Rita looks at Dean before she crosses the courtyard to Karrefour, takes the knife. Karrefour, now on his knees, gives her an approving smile, licks his teeth. Rita takes Karrefour's hand – carefully, very gently – and sets the point of the knife on Karrefour's palm. Her back's to Dean so he can't see the expression on her face. He does see, though, as she digs the knife in deep and draws the blade across Karrefour's skin. Blood starts pouring immediately.

Karrefour turns back to his statue and the clay pieces, picks them up one by one and draws them across his bleeding palm before letting them fall to the ground. Once he's done each of the pieces, the hum in the air gaining in violence until Dean's teeth are almost chattering with the pressure, Karrefour spits on them and the air snaps back into place. Dean's ears ring with the sudden silence.

"Take one, each of you," Sam says, picking up the _pakets_ before rising to his feet. 

He offers them to the dozen Petro. Dean waits but no one moves, Sam's hand still outstretched, the Petro vodouisantes frozen. Finally, Dean lets out a breath and goes to take the knife from Rita, who has been holding it at her side this whole time. She looks at him and Dean nods, tilts his head in Sam's direction.

Rita reaches out, picks up one of the amulets. A look crosses her face, one of confusion before it changes into something that looks dangerously like pain. "_Poto mitan_," she whispers. Dean has never heard this particular tone of voice from Rita before and he doesn't like it now. "_Poto mitan_, what."

"The cemeteries are flooded," Sam says, each word clear and measured. "We need to lay the spirits to rest before the city is overrun with ghosts -- or something worse. Take the _pakets_ to a cemetery, any cemetery, that's been flooded. Stay outside and press the blooded side to the middle of each boundary wall or fence. That will stop any restless spirits from leaving."

"It won't just _stop_ them," Rita says. "It'll send every single one of them straight to hell. _Poto mitan_, is that --"

Sam's eyes turn cold. "Linglessou Basin-Sang is your rider, Querida Paginot," he says. "He rides you rough and makes you swallow broken glass. These spirits have been given their chance to choose their afterlife. They turned their back on the choice and voided their options. We are going to correct that. Do you still refuse?"

Rita stiffens. "I didn't refuse, _poto mitan_." Her hand clenches into a fist around the _paket_ and she nods once, sharply, before she moves out of the way to let the next vodouisante come forward.

Sam names each horse and their rider as he hands out the _pakets_. The vodouisantes take them and leave with Rita in the lead. They look as if they can't get out of the courtyard fast enough.

Dean opens his mouth to ask what the hell's just happened, but Sam wavers on his feet and sits down too quickly to have done it entirely by choice. Dean is at his side a moment later, crouching down and helping Sam lean back against the base of Karrefour's statue.

"Dude," Dean says. "What the hell, Sam?"

Sam gives him a tired smile, lips drawn thin and pale. "It needed to be done," Sam says. "And that was the fastest way. I couldn't -- I couldn't warn them," he adds. "Or they never would have come."

\--

Dean cleans out the wound on Sam's palm, already half-healed thanks to the one of the loa. "That took a lot out of you," he says, "more than I'm comfortable with. You should stay here and rest for a while, even if it's just an hour or two."

Sam gets that stubborn look in his eyes and says, "There's too much to do, Dean. You know that. Besides, I have to get back and activate the charms; they should be done by now. And you made me take a nap yesterday," he adds in a mulish mutter.

"No," Dean says, as soon as Sam stops to take a breath. "No way in hell are you letting all of those loose right now. I know you have the power but no, Sam, and this time I'm not gonna budge. You need _rest_."

"Everyone needs rest," Sam mutters. It looks like he's thinking over Dean's words, though, so Dean doesn't respond to that, just waits, arms folded across his chest. "Okay," Sam finally says. "I'll stay in bed for an hour, but it's not my fault if I can't sleep. Agreed?"

Dean lets out a breath and says, "You'll try to sleep, though, right? For an hour, Sam. Swear it."

Sam's expression softens, as if he's finally hearing the worry that's been threaded through everything Dean's said since they got in the Impala to come down to New Orleans. "Swear to _le gran met_," Sam says, and leans down, nuzzles at Dean's stomach, then turns his head, rests his cheek against Dean's thigh. "But in an hour, have someone bring the amulets over and tell whoever's at the house to get rid of any leftovers."

"_I'll_ bring the amulets in an hour," Dean says. He looks Sam over, sees the colour -- faint, but there -- in Sam's cheeks, and smacks Sam's shoulder. "Let's get you upstairs." 

Sam opens his mouth, probably to argue, but subsides quickly and, instead, leans back, casual and spread out, legs splayed and eyes dark, and arches an eyebrow. "You gonna put me to bed?"

Heat rushes through Dean, carried in blood, oxygen, every single particle and atom circulating through his body. "Put you to bed, yes," Dean says, "but I gotta get back to Rita's." He drinks in the sight of Sam, sitting there, the picture he makes, the scent of Danny rising around them, and it's been less than a day but Dean _wants_. "Damn it, Sam. You can't _do_ that. We don't have time now. Later, okay?"

Sam reaches out and plays with the button of Dean's jeans. "Put me to bed, _papalwa_, and let me blow you now. You can fuck me later." Sam looks up at Dean through his eyelashes, grins to show teeth, and adds, "Might help you hurry back."

"Always," Dean says. "Anytime I'm -- all I want."

He hates these fucking chick-flick moments, hates trying to find words that express everything he feels because no word is ever going to be enough to describe what Sam is to him, how far inside of him Sam is and how much Dean wishes there was more of himself to give to Sam, more space and more flesh and more breath.

"_Mo lemme t'oi, mwen solèy_," Sam murmurs. Dean meets his brother's eyes and nods, relieved. Funny to think how they had to turn to the words of other languages entirely to find something big enough to encapsulate them and how they feel.

\--

Dean follows Sam upstairs and, true to his word, Sam drops to his knees as soon as they're in the bedroom and blows Dean, drinking him down and wearing a self-satisfied smile when he's done. Dean would roll his eyes but his legs are a little shaky -- it's impossible, but he thinks Sam gets better at that every time -- and Sam's looking up at him, eyes dark and lips swollen.

"In bed," Dean says. Sam doesn't move fast enough for Dean's taste so he takes Sam by the arm, helps him up and then strips him down to his underwear before pushing him onto the bed.

Once Sam's settled, tucked under a sheet and his eyes conspicuously closed, Dean goes back downstairs and to the front room. He looks in and when the _badjikan_ glances up at him, Dean tilts his head in the direction of the kitchen. When they're out of earshot of John, Dean tells the _badjikan_ everything that's happened and then asks, "What the hell?"

The _badjikan_ has been getting progressively paler and paler through Dean's story; by the time Dean's finished, he's perched on the edge of the kitchen table, holding his arms over his chest like he's cold. "A _paket_," the _badjikan_ says. "One crossed with the sign of Karrefour and the _poto mitan_'s blood. A thing like that can do an awful lot of damage."

Dean's blood pounds in his veins. "Should I be worried about someone using it for something else?" he asks. "Or against Sam?"

"No," the _badjikan_ says, and he looks terrified at the mere possibility. "It'll only work for the horses he named and if any of them try to use it for something else --." The _badjikan_ stops, shakes his head. Dean waits and he finally says, "Anyone using that _paket_ for any reason other than what he said or giving it to another person, they have to be crazy. Misusing a _paket_ is one thing, sure, but misusing one of _Karrefour's_? Misusing one dipped in the blood of the _poto mitan_? I don't know whether that _bosal_ vodouisante would end up being more afraid of Karrefour or of the _poto mitan_, if it came down to it, much less both of them working in concert."

Taken aback, Dean can't do much more than nod his understanding. He suddenly realises why the _badjikan_ has goosebumps running up and down his arms.

\--

Dean heads back to the Marigny, the thought of those _pakets_ on his mind. It's not so much the power they hold as the people carrying them -- if he'd known about this, he would've had second thoughts about volunteering Rita, and what does that say about him, about his trust in both his _poto mitan_ and _mamalwa_?

"_Means you got a brain in that thick skull o' yours_, idyo," Ogou tells him. "_No shame in bein' cautious when it comes to m' _trezò_ and what he can do_."

"_I'm less worried about what he can do_," Dean says, "_than I am about what lengths he'll go to. A _paket_'s no little thing_."

Ogou snorts and Dean gets the distinct impression that the loa's rolling his eyes at him. "_No little thing that you ain't knowing nothin' 'bout an hour ago_," Ogou says. "_You keep acting like this, worrying, not trusting him, and the _poto mitan_ ain't gonna tell you nothing ever 'gain_."

Dean thinks about that for a second, stops right in the middle of the street and thinks about it. "_It's not that I don't trust Sam_," he says. "_Or that I'm worried about what he's doing. I'm worried _for_ him. Too much has changed too quickly, and in the middle of this fucking mess, too_."

"_Leash it while you 'round 'im, _cheval," Ogou says. "_Fear of 'im, fear for 'im -- he ain't never learned to recognise the difference_."

"_Stop telling me things I already know_," Dean says, moving again.

Ogou snarls, playful little noise, and Dean growls back as they leave the Quarter and get to the Marigny.

\--

Brigitte's standing on the porch with a couple vodouisantes around her, all of them looking at a map, pointing in turns, talking quietly. When Dean gets closer, they all stop what they're doing, look up at him like they can feel the tang of Ogou preceding Dean down the street.

"I hear the _poto mitan_'s sending out _pakets_," Brigitte says. "He gonna loose the _ouanga_, too, or should I get a few people ready to help you do it?"

Dean doesn't know what Brigitte's heard or who she's been talking to; he narrows his eyes, says, "Sam'll do it. I'm here for an hour, then I'm taking them back to the Dauphine house for him to do it there."

Brigitte smiles, sends the other four off with the map. When they're out of hearing range, she says, "LaJane wants to find some cops, see what they're up to. Wildlife and Fisheries is helping with the evacuation but we ain't seen any NOPD since before the storm." Dean kicks himself. He should've thought of that. "Sent out the Rada, figured they'd look lost enough to have anyone official sniffing 'em out in seconds."

That makes Dean laugh. "Good idea," he says. The laugh dies down, self-recrimination flooding back up. "I should've thought of it."

"You been busy," Brigitte says, dismissive enough that Dean almost feels offended. "Takin' care of the _poto mitan_'s a full-time job, an' you been doing other shit, too. Ain't on you to think of everything; that's why the rest of us came down."

"Speaking of the rest of us," Dean says.

Brigitte cuts him off. "Me an' Tony got eyes watching 'em. No _bosal_ horses gonna be causing _dezod_. Even," she adds, "if they're _konfians kays_." She pauses, asks, "Sam planning on doing anything about them?"

Dean makes a face. "Eventually," he says. "Sooner if I can get him to listen to reason." Brigitte looks like she wants to ask him something; Dean doesn't feel comfortable enough with her to push, not yet, so he changes the subject. "What're they doing inside?"

"Unpacking," she says. "Finishing the _ouanga_. Few of 'em gettin' ready to head out with supplies, shift replacement down at the bridge. What you planning on doing for the next hour?"

Dean shrugs, says, "Whatever I'm needed for."

Brigitte's smile is wide. Her teeth gleam in the sunlight. "A'ight," she says. "C'mon on in, Dean."


	17. Wednesday, August 31, 2005 - Part Two

Dean's been standing around the kitchen table for about half an hour, getting a crash course on _ouanga_ from Brigitte and Mathieu's _konesan_. A lot more goes into it than Dean would have guessed: each of the ingredients gets activated, or charged, maybe, is the better term, before they're combined, but the act of combination puts them into something like sleep; waking them up and activating the entire talisman requires more power than activating each individual piece -- which is where Sam will come in, later. Dean watches the women around the table -- all Petro, all of them his -- shape clay, carve into it, jolt it with power, crumble the discs, charge the dust, mash up crickets and ants in a mortar, sprinkle the dust into the paste -- and on and on and on, each step followed by a buzz of power that makes Dean's back teeth ache.

The knock on the front door is something of a relief; Brigitte didn't tell him what the _ouanga_ are for but Mathieu's knowledge goes a long way in giving Dean a good idea. He's more than all right with getting away from that table, heading for the door and opening it before Emil even stands from where he's been packing up emergency supply kits on the living room floor.

Two of the Rada that Brigitte sent out earlier are standing on the doorstep; they slide around Dean and into the house, disappear somewhere in the back. The two guys standing on the step -- they're cops, judging by the look they give Dean, the way one of them tries to peer around Dean and figure out where all the noise is coming from.

"There's still a mandatory evac goin' on," the other one says. His accent is pure South but not New Orleans; the vowels lengthen in the humidity, consonants smooth, every syllable doubled in length, some even tripled. He looks exhausted, skin burnt to a crisp, circles under his eyes like bruises. His partner doesn't look much better, might even look worse.

"You'd have a fight getting us out of here," Dean says, mild. He doesn't want to provoke them but wants to make sure they know that Dean, Dean's people, they're staying right where they are. "Wanna come in and get a snack?"

The guys glance at each other, look at Dean, and the self-appointed spokesman of the pair meets Dean's gaze and holds it, finally offers Dean a hand. "Chris LaSalle," he says. "NOPD. S'my partner, Will LaMontagne. A snack'd be nice if you have it to spare."

The two come inside at Dean's invitation, hover awkwardly in the living room. LaMontagne seems content to lean against the wall, let it hold him up, but LaSalle's eyes are sharp, darting every which way, taking in the activity Emil's got started up again, the women in the kitchen blocking the view of the table.

One of Dean's Petro brings three chairs in from the kitchen, puts two of them next to each other, backs to the wall, puts the third at an angle facing them. Dean gestures at the pair of chairs, takes the single one for himself. He's not a fan of putting his back to the house's one accessible entrance, but Emil's here, Brigitte's here, Dean's Petro are here, and he trusts them all to watch his six. Dean rests for a moment -- just a moment -- in that assurance.

LaSalle and LaMontagne sit down, cautious, watchful, quiet. As soon as they settle, Brigitte's there with a tray: Gatorade, room temperature CC's coffee, biscuits, apples, honey, and a plate of Cheddar cheese chunks straight from the cooler and starting to sweat.

"Biscuits are fresh," Brigitte says, giving LaSalle the tray. "So's the coffee; sorry it ain't hot."

"Better than what we have, ma'am," LaSalle says. "Thank you."

Dean waits until the two have eaten a good share of what's on the tray, downed a cup of coffee each, and asks, mildly, "Just water and crackers down at the station?"

LaMontagne snorts; his posture gives, back slumping just a little. "What station," he says. "Eight of 'em flooded. We're workin' out of Harrah's while the god-damned chief is --"

"Will," LaSalle says, cutting LaMontagne off. LaMontagne mutters but too quietly for Dean to hear; LaSalle gives his partner a moment then tells Dean, "We appreciate the food -- and the coffee. Hell, there's enough caffeine in this to keep us going the rest of the day."

Dean smiles at the effort LaSalle's making, appreciates the bravado. "So without a real home base, you guys are just, what, just out patrolling?"

"Vice and Narcotics're out with boats," LaSalle says. "Cap'n Bayard got 'em all working our district while the building's underwater." Dean raises an eyebrow at that; he hadn't seen any cops out there Monday but it's been two days and he hasn't caught up with Tony on what's been happening, it's possible there's whole crews of cops joining the rescue effort. "Fifth district," LaSalle says, at Dean's look. "Bywater and the Ninth. Station's only under 'bout three feet of water -- we were lucky. But the gen went out and the water just gets deeper the closer to Florida y'go; everything up there's seven, eight feet deep. They ran out of boats by the time it got to me 'n Will so cap'n sent us out do to search-and-rescue on foot."

Dean nods at the gun LaSalle has strapped to his side, asks, placidly, "Do much rescue with that?"

LaSalle's smile, when it slips loose, is hard, ungiving. "Looters," he says. "Or people who ain't happy to see us coming."

Brigitte comes over, refills the coffee cups, takes the tray back when LaMontagne says they're done with it, "thank you very much, ma'am."

"I know it's only been two days," Dean says, after a moment of silence, trying to carefully tiptoe his way through the potential minefields of what he's about to ask, "but we haven't seen a lot of cops around. I've been back and forth to Industrial a couple times, been around the Quarter and the Marigny, spent a few hours in the Bywater myself Tuesday morning, and we had to send people to find you. Is it because we're on higher ground here? Nothing really to worry about in the Quarter when other places are worse off?"

"Some," LaSalle says. It's clear that he's not willing to say much more, the instant and instinctual urge to cover for his brothers in blue.

LaMontagne gives, though; he sighs, says, "Some of the motherfucking -- sorry, ma'am," he apologises to Brigitte, still standing there, listening. She waves it off, says that she's heard a lot worse in her day, and LaMontagne goes on, "Some of us, we weren't all -- some are still on rooftops. Probably a few drowned," and his gaze goes distant like he's thinking of someone in particular. "Most are out doing s-and-r. But there're a few --." He stops there, expression going wooden as he looks down at his coffee.

Dean waits but when nothing comes, he guesses, stomach sinking. "Some of 'em left. Before the storm?"

"A few," LaSalle says, now that it's clear they're having this conversation. "Left to evacuate their families but couldn't get back here before the storm hit. Some just -- some just _left_."

"Deserters," LaMontagne says. "I mean, I know this ain't a war zone and we ain't the army, but still. Running away at a time like this? How do -- how can a person -- I don't -- this is _my city_. As much as I want -- I couldn't -- we swore an oath and our city's underwater." He shrugs, helpless.

Dean glances up at Brigitte, sees a laughing gleam in her eyes as she tilts her chin before heading back to the kitchen, tray balanced on one hip, coffee carafe in the other hand. "We'll do anything we can to help," Dean says. "We've got people out on boats, some in the Lower Ninth, some in NOE. And we've got a supply line to the capital; if you wanna take any of this shit back with you, you're welcome to."

LaMontagne looks up at that offer, exchanges a look with LaSalle. "Who are --," he starts to ask, stops, and that's when LaSalle's eyes flick past Dean, over Dean's shoulder, following Brigitte but laying eyes on something else in the kitchen.

"_Well, shit_," Ogou mutters, as LaSalle's expression flares wide before his eyes narrow and he stands up, bristling. "_Last step to the _ouanga, cheval."

After seeing Sam make the _pakets_, Dean's guessing that means blood. He resists the urge to growl, to roll his eyes, to turn around and start swearing at his motherfucking idiot Petro.

"What the hell you got going on in here, Dean?" LaSalle asks, voice low.

LaMontagne, who had moved to stand as soon as his partner did, catches sight of what LaSalle noticed and immediately whitens.

"_Boy's from here_," Ogou says, "_but he ain't knowin' what we is before he seen that_."

"_And isn't _that_ interesting_," Dean replies. "_We're not exactly subtle_."

Ogou lets free with a thoughtful noise. "_Ain't one o' ours_," the loa says, "_but he been burned a'fore. Boy's terrified_."

"_The other one isn't_," Dean points out. He and Ogou look at LaSalle; the cop's confused under the indignation. Hushing Ogou, Dean tells LaSalle, "Not anything you or yours need to worry about, detective. We're trying to help just as much as you are."

"Voodoo ain't never helped a damn thing," LaMontagne says, practically spits. "Christopher, we're done here."

LaMontagne heads for the door, angry strides helping him cross the small space in a matter of three seconds. LaSalle's slower to move but where there's a furious terror in LaMontagne's every movement, LaSalle just looks disgusted.

"Like I said," Dean tells them, turning around in the chair, not bothering to stand up, "if there's anything we can do, we're more than happy to help."

"Fuck you," LaMontagne snarls. He leaves, screen door slamming shut behind him.

LaSalle lingers, though, tells Dean, "Can't say I blame Will for what he said. It's hard for cops to accept help from people who slice themselves open in the middle of a disaster in the name of a Hollywood cult."

Brigitte snorts; she's standing halfway between LaSalle and the kitchen when Dean looks, standing with her hands on her hips and the loa in her eyes. "Ain't got a thing to do with Hollywood, Christopher LaSalle," she says. Dean's never met Zazi Boulonmin but that's who Ogou says is urging Brigitte on right now, giving her eyes a tinge of gold. "You born in 'Bama, don't know nothing 'bout what we is, comin' in here thinkin' you got a right to judge us when we only tryin'a help out. Listen to me and listen good, boy: learn or suffer the consequences."

As she's -- as Zazi's -- saying it, Dean knows it's a mistake. LaSalle's jaw clenches, he tilts his head, says, "Think I'll take my chances. Ma'am."

He leaves. The door slams shut behind him, too.

\--

Dean lets the silence fill his ears for a second, then turns to Brigitte. "You going _badjikan_ on us, Brigitte?" he asks.

Brigitte, her irises still ringed by a circle of golden flecks, scoffs. "Be a problem if I was, _konfians kay_?"

Emil, listening in, drops the package of clean socks in his hands and apologises with a muttered curse. A few of the others are watching, anywhere from fascinated to scared, and Dean feels their attention on him as well as Brigitte's, Zazi's, Ogou's. "Not a problem for me," he says. "Sam know?"

"Your brother," she says, "he knows. His own damn fault, way we see it."

"Well, leash it the fuck up for now," Dean tells her. "And don't you _dare_ think about giving Sam grief for something you could've put a stop to at any fucking point if you wanted."

Brigitte bares her teeth at him but the gold in her eyes starts to fade. She gives a little jerk to the side when it's done, as if the loa tried tugging her along with it, but she plants her feet, closes her eyes. "Sorry," she says. "To you _and_ to the _poto mitan_. It's still early days; Zazi takes over sometimes when I don't expect it."

Ogou points out, "_Heya, she goin' _badjikan_, might be why the trouble hit Betsy and not her. No way to go _bosal_ when you tied that tight to a loa._"

It's an interesting point, a good point, one that Dean should definitely pass on to Sam -- that is, if Sam didn't already know. There's a good chance he did -- does. It might even explain why Sam trusts Brigitte as much as he does, especially when he's started to put some distance between them and a lot of the _konfians kays_ in town.

"Just give me the _ouanga_ to take to Sam," he says, "and we'll call it square."

\--

The _ouanga_ smell like blood and dead insects, even from inside of the curse box Dean's carrying. Ogou's murmuring about hunter's senses, about it being a sign they're close, that Ogou can feel the power and Dean smelling it, that's a good thing. Dean's not entirely sure he believes Ogou and is definitely relieved to get back to the Dauphine house and go upstairs, drop the box on the bed next to Sam -- Sam who's awake, staring at the ceiling, eyes churning with loa.

"Promised you'd try to sleep," Dean says, mildly.

"I did try," Sam replies. "It's just not happening right now. But I stayed in bed in case, okay?"

Dean perches on the edge of the bed, lets one hand settle right over Sam's breastbone, the skin under his hand warm, Sam's muscles losing an edge of tension at the touch. "Okay," Dean says. "I know. I brought the _ouanga_ back -- and I got some news, too." Sam sits up, dislodges Dean's palm by twining his fingers in with Dean's, letting their joined hands rest on his thigh. Dean strokes the skin there with his thumb. Dean doesn't know where to start, exactly; he decides to ask, "Did you know Brigitte's going _badjikan_?"

Sam's eyes narrow. "What happened?"

"We had a couple Rada go out and find some cops," Dean says. "Brigitte did, I mean -- I should've thought of that." Sam opens his mouth; Dean cuts him off before he can say anything. "I know, I know, Brigitte already got me straightened out, but still. _Anyway_. A pair of detectives stopped by. They figured out what we were and Brigitte, she -- it was the closest I've seen anyone be ridden without being ridden, apart from you. Her eyes, they -- she had a ring of gold around her irises." Gold, like the demon that killed their mother, that Dean shot with Samuel Colt's own gun, that died in a nursery surrounded by the lines of a Sumerian ritual and steaming with holy water burns. That in mind, no wonder Dean's still a little freaked out.

"She told me she was considering it the first time I met her," Sam says. "But it's something that the _poto mitan_ has to -- has to approve, in a way. There's a ritual we have to do, the horse and the _poto mitan_, to open the door for the loa to consider it. It's a long process and the outward signs usually do show up first while the rider figures out if they fit the horse well enough to mesh. The physical's a lot easier than the mental or spiritual."

Dean takes that in, thinks about it. It makes sense: trying to decide if they think the same way will take time, better to get the basic physical compatibility out of the way first. "She knew something, about one of the cops. I don't think he caught it -- maybe he did, I dunno. But it was strange to see her like that. Like she wasn't quite the Brigitte we've been dealing with."

"But you're sure it was because of the loa," Sam says, attention sharpened. "Right?"

"Definitely," Dean says. "Nothing to do with Raleigh." As soon as he says it, Sam's eyes flash. "You weren't asking if it was to do with Raleigh, were you. Why would -- Sam, should I even ask?"

Sam pauses, weighs his words carefully even as Dean's stomach sinks. This is connected to what Brigitte was thinking about asking him on the porch, after she sent the Rada away, he knows it, he _knows_ it, and Sam trusts her with it but not Dean?

"_Don't start thinkin' like that again,_" Ogou warns him. "_Thought you was done thinkin' like that,_ idyo."

Dean thought he was, too -- but apparently not.

"I trust you," Sam tells him, once the silence has stretched out. He sounds so tired. "You know I trust you."

"And I -- y'know," Dean says. "Sometimes it's just --." There's a noise in the hallway, the _badjikan_, Dean thinks. It startles him, reminds him that there are other people here, other things Sam needs to know before he gets up and charges the _ouanga_, releases them to do whatever it is they're meant to do. "Anyway, the cops that came back," he says. "They're finally starting to get around to doing something about this fucking mess. Said there's a unit out on boats, a bunch of others doing what search and rescue they can on foot around the edges of the flooded neighbourhoods."

Sam tilts his head, just a little. "What else?" he asks. "There's something you're not saying. Dean."

"A few," he starts to say, stops. "They're understaffed right now. I mean, you can't be overstaffed in this kind of situation, but --. Some of the cops got caught outside the city when the storm hit; they didn't make it back in time after getting their families out. The ones that're left, they're -- some of their stationhouses are under water or blown out or they don't have supplies for what's happened. They weren't prepared at all for the levees breaking."

"Hard to be prepared for what happened," Sam says. Dean wants to argue, wants to say that Sam was, that he made sure the vodouisantes here were, but he can see the loa moving in Sam's expression, can see the faintest hint of pink start to bleed in the edges of Sam's eyes while a hint of ozone tickles Dean's nostrils. "What aren't you telling me?"

Dean doesn't want to repeat what LaSalle and LaMontagne told him. Telling Sam will make it feel more real, that there are cops sworn to protect the city who, when the city needed them most, just left it -- and telling Sam means telling Ge-Rouge and Karrefour. Sam says his name again, this time less a question and more a demand, and Dean sighs, steels himself and says, "Some of 'em ran away," blunt and to the point.

Knowing Sam as well as he does, Dean had been expecting that short, sharp sentence to take a minute to percolate, to make its way through Sam's mind, down to the heart and gut. He expected a flare of anger, maybe hate, expected derision, expected Sam to say something pithy and cutting.

He did _not_ expect Sam's eyes to flood sudden red, full scarlet, quicker than a blink.

"_Pito _muri," Ge-Rouge snarls. Shit. Dean didn't even know Ge-Rouge could _speak_. Sam -- no, Ge-Rouge shoulders past Dean to stand up, Sam's vévé tattoos cracking along the lines of ink. "_Yo pral madichonnen sòti nan yon jenerasyon ale nan yon lòt jistan yo te vin tonbe nan transgresyon. Yo pral yon asasinen yo, piye yo, lachas yo, touye yo, gaye yo sou sifas tè. Chen ap bwè san yo. Yo p'ap janm konnen lapè_."

Fuck. Dean didn't get that word-for-word, but he got enough of it to know that Ge-Rouge just called down one hell of a curse. Part of him, the part where Ogou's coiling in agreement, is all for letting her go out and give 'em hell. Running away from their city, their people, when they're needed most? Those cops deserve everything Ge-Rouge said, death and more. The rest of him, though, knows that Ge-Rouge isn't exactly concerned with making sure she's got the right people on the end of her invocation, and it's up to him to stop her from slaughtering every remaining cop in the city out of fury. Ge-Rouge is already moving for the door even though she's practically naked; Dean reaches out, grabs her arm and lets the clawing pain of Ge-Rouge's rage burn him as he whirls her around to face him.

"Stay," he says.

"_Kolangyèt manman'w, chwal_," Ge-Rouge hisses. "_Mwen pral touye tout moun, konprann? Eseye epi sispann m._"

Dean looks into Ge-Rouge's eyes, Sam's gorgeous hazel taken over by the pure vicious red of Erzulie's most violent face, and swallows. He thought she was bad back in the bayou, facing down Marinette's _loup-garou_ but this is -- he has no idea how that man ever stood face-to-face with what's in front of Dean right now.

"_Same way as you, pro'ly_," Ogou mutters.

Dean ignores that, says, "The curse is enough. You've made sure of that. You don't need to go hunt anyone down." Ge-Rouge bares her teeth; Dean grits his own and yanks her shoulder with his other hand. The flood of agony running through him nearly puts him on his knees. "Stay here," he says. She doesn't say anything but Dean can guess what she's thinking when she slaps him, _hard_. "Stay with me," he says, begs.

"_Ain't thinkin' she cares to_," Ogou murmurs. He sounds half in awe of her, but the rest of him is gearing up for a fight.

Dean tightens the connection between them until he's reeking of pepper and rum, Ogou present in every muscle, every movement. The red in Ge-Rouge's eyes lightens, not much but enough to see, and Dean says, "Sam, push her back, c'mon; you can't let her do this, you have to stop her."

Ge-Rouge snaps at him, teeth making an awful noise as they connect with each other, and she starts laughing, a hysterical, maddened laugh that makes Dean's blood run cold. A moment later, the bedroom slams open; the _badjikan_ stands there, eyes wide, one hand over his mouth. Ge-Rouge sees him, laughs even harder at the expression on his face.

There are footsteps coming up -- must be John -- and Dean tells the _badjikan_, "If you're here to help, then get in and shut the fucking door. If not, _get out_ and make sure dad doesn't see this."

It doesn't look like the _badjikan_ heard Dean and with Dean's attention divided, Ge-Rouge fights him, tries to get away. He grits his teeth, holds on to her a little tighter, feels the fury batter at him like the hurricane battered the city two days ago. Dean turns his focus back on her, distantly hears the door slam, guesses the _badjikan_ decided to stand guard in the hall rather than come inside and face the madness Dean's trying to restrain. He can't blame the man one iota.

"Sam, come on," Dean pleads, as he watches blood start to drip from Ge-Rouge's mouth. "Karrefour, Lakwa, _anyone_, please, for the love of fucking _god_."

The air heats up, trace edges of metal and electricity hitting Dean's throat, but Ti-Jean and Karrefour get washed away as Ge-Rouge pushes Dean back one step, two steps. A second later, one step closer to the door, and the air turns to _ice_. Dean's blood runs cold but this time Kita doesn't attack him -- she _rides_ him.

"Sam," she croons, the sound unnatural coming from Dean's throat, a tone of voice he didn't even know his voice could produce. Her cold, flooding through him, freezing his skin, thickening his blood, is just enough to counter the burn of Ge-Rouge's anger. "_Poto mitan_. Going to let ol' Red-Eyes kill your _solèy_? Going to let Erzulie take away the very thing you sacrificed your freedom to protect?" His voice -- _Kita's_ voice -- lowers, turns to a purr, asks, "Going to let her take away _one more thing_ after she took away your _cher tèt_?"

The red disappears from Sam's eyes almost as quickly as it appeared. "She didn't take away Marinette," Sam hisses. "Marinette left _me_. She's the one who --"

Kita laughs, cutting Sam off. "The one who tried to kill you?" she asks. She takes her hands off of Sam, lets two fingertips trace down his cheek. "Or the one who broke your heart? Which is worse, _poto mitan_? Why'd you lock away my girl?"

"She broke the law," Sam says. "She's the one who -- she knew what she was doing, _maîtresse_. The whole time, she knew."

"She knew, but she hated it," Kita says, quietly. "Every second, she hated it. She loved you enough to hate it."

Sam gives her a sad smile. "But not enough to stop," he says. "Can I have Dean back now, please?"

Kita leaves; Dean vomits up a chunk of ice the size of his fist and feels warmth -- and Ogou -- slowly start to circulate through his body again. "Jesus christ," he says. He coughs, this time spits up blood; the chunk of ice had been sharp, jagged, tore up his throat and mouth on the way out. Dean feels faint, can't stop coughing, feels like if he had more food in him, it'd all be coming out.

Sam tugs him over to the bed, gets him sitting down, then Sam pulls on a pair of jeans and heads for the door. Dean wants to reach out, keep Sam close, but Sam only opens the door, says, "We're fine," to whoever's in the hallway, then slams the door and nearly runs back to Dean. Sam drops to his knees, one hand on Dean's thigh, the other on Dean's throat. "Hold on," he says. "Let Loko --" and then his throat's better, almost instantly, the pain gone.

Dean spits once more, glob of blood and tissue hitting the floor with a noise loud enough to break the silence. "Jesus," he says, again. "Okay. I'm okay."

"Think it's your turn for a nap," Sam tells him. "Loko's good at healing the pain quick but you should get some rest to let the healing take." Sam's eyes flash -- not loa, just him -- and his jaw goes tight.

"What?" Dean asks. His voice sounds shredded, as if he'd spent an hour screaming, as if he'd swallowed down broken glass and coughed it up again five minutes later. Sam takes Dean's boots off, pulls his socks off, too, and between the two of them, Dean's down to his underwear and under the sheets a couple minutes later. "Tell me," Dean prods.

Sam sighs, sits on the edge of the bed, can't meet Dean's eyes. "Karrefour," he says. "What we thought about Kita, the other day, Karrefour's reasons? We weren't wrong. But he says he knew Kita was the only one who'd be able to tangle with Ge-Rouge if she was -- like that. So he wanted to make the path easier."

Dean huffs, lets out a breath and reaches out, takes one of Sam's hands in his, tangles their fingers together. "Fucking dick," he says. "Can I get some water?"

His throat is killing him, even with Loko having healed the broken flesh. Ogou's not saying much, content for now to think about the implications of Karrefour calling down Kita, ostensibly as an _introduction_ so that Dean wouldn't freak out if he had to be ridden by her. If Sam hadn't been able to beat back Kita the first time, Dean would be _dead_ \-- good luck with a fucking introduction in that case. Dean's known for a long time now that Karrefour's dangerous, that he makes plans within plans, is willing to sacrifice whoever and whatever he needs to in order to get what he wants, but this -- this is beyond even what he thought Karrefour was capable of.

"_Capable of worse than this_ dezod," Ogou tells him. "_Now sleep, _cheval_. M' _trezò_ weren't joking; rest'll do you good._"

Dean looks at Sam, can see his brother blaming himself for one more fucking thing, and Dean says, "We'll figure it out later, okay? But as far as I'm concerned, Ge-Rouge isn't your fault and I'll let Kita ride me a thousand times if it keeps you safe. Hell, she's not -- I never knew I could sound like that. Have to try it again sometime. Think maybe if you're you, you'd respond a lot differently than Ge-Rouge did."

Sam flushes, then laughs. It's a small laugh, more a chuckle than anything, and it's reluctant, but it is a laugh. "I'll get you some water."

Sam gets up, goes, and Dean's asleep almost as soon as his brother's out of sight.


	18. Thursday, September 1, 2005 - Part One

Dean sleeps through the night, finally waking up around nine on Thursday morning. His whole body aches; it takes a moment for him to work up enough courage to gingerly swallow. He expects the pain to be centred in his throat, but he lets out a sigh of relief when he realises that Loko's healing sunk in and stuck.

"I should send him a fruit basket," Dean says.

"_Like to see you try_," Ogou says. He breezes through Dean, takes away the majority of the ache left shivering in Dean's bones, does what he can for the remnants of stinging in Dean's throat. "_Y'feel like you could use another dozen hours o' sleep, _cheval."

Dean sits up, swings his feet off the side of the bed, looks out the window. "I could," he admits. "But we both know I can't. Shouldn't've collapsed last night."

"_Ain't no one gonna blame you_," Ogou says. "_Tell any of 'em you was hosting _Ti-Metrès_, they be relieved you alive. Come to think of it, might scare 'em to know you walking under your own power so soon._"

"And you want me to go downstairs and show off," Dean says. "Sam's right, you're a fucking _kochon_."

Ogou laughs, low and predatory. The noise makes Dean grin.

\--

The two of them tussle as Dean takes a quick sink bath with bottled water, as Dean dresses, as Dean goes downstairs. He doesn't see Sam in the kitchen, checks the courtyard but doesn't find his brother there, either. Dean grabs a protein bar and an apple, heads for the front room. The _badjikan_'s perched on the edge of the couch, a slew of paper scattered across the coffee table.

"Sorry 'bout last night," the _badjikan_ murmurs, jaw tight as he pointedly does not look at Dean. "Should'a done more."

"Can't blame you," Dean says. He sits on one of the armchairs, sprawls out. "I wanted to run, too."

The _badjikan_ snorts, still doesn't meet Dean's eyes. "Yeah, but you didn't. Stayed and faced down Red-Eyes like it ain't nothing. Then -- _poto mitan_ told me how you reined her in. _Who_ reined her in."

Dean takes a large bite of his apple, relishes the crunch between his teeth as he chews, then swallows, finally says, "Sam reined her in. Drove her out, really. Kita just knew what to say to help him." He takes another bite, asks, "Where _is_ Sam?"

"He and your papa went over to the Dauphine house," the _badjikan_ says. "Said something 'bout gettin' real food but that they'd be back right-quick once they check up on things. Could -- could use your help here, if you wanna wait for 'em."

"Help with what?" Dean asks. "And please, fucking look me in the eyes, okay? You've never been shy with the attitude before; there's no reason to start now."

The _badjikan_ glances up at him, a quick, fleeting thing, then back down at the papers on the table. "Ain't right," he says, quietly. "Ain't --"

"If you're about to say you're not worthy to look me in the face," Dean says, just as quietly, twice as fiercely, "then you're full of shit. You look Sam in the face, don't you? And he's ten times the man I am."

"Once people find out what happened, it ain't just gonna be me," the _badjikan_ says. "_Poto mitan_ with Red-Eyes and the Dry Mother, you with _Ti-Metrès_, Ogou stickin' close, getting enough of Karrefour's favour to be named his _mato_? There ain't been a ruling pair like y'all in quite some time, Dean. And something happened during the 'cane; the others might not know it yet but I can feel it. Something bound you two _tight_."

Dean makes a face, lets out a breath, takes another bite of his apple to give him time to think. He's not -- there's still so much he has to learn. "What's the deal with being _mato_?" he finally asks.

The _bajikan_ goes still, completely freezes like a prey animal that knows it's caught the attention of something much higher up on the food chain. "It don't happen often," he says. "Means you have Karrefour's favour. Means he has faith that you'll let him use you when he has need. That loa sees most problems as nails, say. And a _mato_ is the hammer he uses to solve those problems."

"The striking vengeance, his _chevaux_ call people like you," Sam says.

Dean never heard his brother and father come back; he looks up, at the doorway, and sees Sam standing there with a box in his arms. Dean gets up, goes over to Sam, takes the box and looks inside at cans of sterno, disposable buffet trays, paper plates. "We having a party I don't know about?" he asks.

Sam gives Dean a smile, lets Dean look him over, study the colour of Sam's sclera. All he wants to do is reach out and pull Sam in close and tight and safe. "A few people're coming over," he says. "They're bringing real food, so I figured you wouldn't complain too much."

"You okay?" Dean asks, giving into his need, letting one hand reach out, trail fingertips across the curves of Sam's forearm tattoos.

"Fine," Sam says. Dean must give him a look of disbelief, that or doubt, at the very least, and Sam rolls his eyes. "I always have Danny; Ge-Rouge is just another aspect. Are _you_ okay?"

It's Dean's turn to roll his eyes and he does, gladly. "Trying to convince the _badjikan_ to look me in the eyes," he says, lightly. "Though calling me 'striking vengeance' isn't going to help."

John comes in the front door, then, carrying a box slightly bigger than the one Dean's holding, looks heavier, too. Dean gives up on getting anything more, either a kiss from Sam or the _badjikan_ to relax. He tilts his head at John, precedes his father into the kitchen and leaves Sam in the front room. He can hear the door click closed, wonders just what the fuck the _badjikan_ was working on and what Sam's about to tell him.

"Everything okay?" John asks. He lets the box thump onto the kitchen counter next to the sink, starts unpacking baggies of pulled pork, mason jars of barbecue sauce, pickles, coleslaw. "Sam said to let you sleep this morning, said you needed the rest."

"Rough night," Dean says, "though that's no excuse, I know. Sorry."

John shrugs. "No problem with me," he says. "Though that house we went to, a couple people told me to tell you hi. Rita, I think? And another woman: shorter, fiery thing."

"Brigitte," Dean says, thinking back to last night, what Sam told him about her, can't help wondering -- again, _still_ \-- about the secrets she and Sam are keeping. "She's somethin' else."

\--

The house starts to fill up when lunchtime rolls around. John's upstairs, thank god, but Dean's sure that his dad's keeping track of the times the door opens and closes, lets in two people here, three people there, until there's a solid crowd of twenty, maybe twenty-five, cramming into the kitchen and courtyard. Most, if not all, of the _konfians kays_ in town have gathered, bringing food with them -- Dean's not entirely sure where it all came from, considering he's seeing fresh juice and what looks like recently-baked biscuits -- but only a few people are eating, and even they look like they're nibbling for want of anything better to do than out of real hunger or pleasure.

Sam's got a plate in his hand, two biscuits split open and covered in honey, no bite taken out of them. Dean wants to shove that food down Sam's throat, that and more, because Sam looks like he's wasting away, getting lighter and more insubstantial with every hour that passes. There's a growl building in his chest, part him and part Ogou, at the thought that these people are here to take away even more of his brother.

Across the room, Sam turns away from his conversation with Brigitte, gives Dean a look. Dean returns it, doesn't back down, has Ogou breathing through him, with him, as they stare down their _poto mitan_. Sam huffs, rips a bite out of one of his biscuits, chews and glares at Dean once he's swallowed.

It's not enough but it's good for now.

As if that's a signal, the _konfians kays_ hush, settle as much as they can with the tension zinging around the room. One of them, the Petro _konfians kay_ for Cincinnati, Dean thinks, says, "Sam? Have you heard about Charity?"

"What about Charity?" Sam asks. "What's going on?"

"There are snipers," Doreen says. "They're shooting at _patients_, Sam. The feds finally got some fucking helicopters in to evacuate patients and some _bouzin_ is on a roof trying to kill them."

Marcus steps forward, says, "It's not just that. There are reports of gangs all over the city. What police are left, they're telling people to stay inside, to travel in groups if we have to. They're talking about rape and murder, here, Sam."

"Sam, we have to --," Colette starts to say, has to stop and grit her teeth, catch her breath to keep from screaming. Dean can relate; every time he stops moving, the anger and helplessness rides through him, deeper and more vicious than even Kita did last night. He doesn't reach out, though, doesn't touch Colette or even give her a comforting smile because he knows that if he did, both of them would break down in shrieking rage and anguish. "We have to do something," Colette says. She lifts her chin and stares at Sam, who is quiet and still, who's been meeting everyone's eyes and listening but has a closed-off expression that even Dean can't read much into. "There are enough of us. We'd be stretched thin, but we could --"

"No," Sam says, cutting her off.

She stops, immediately, tips her head forward in acquiescence, but there are others shaking their heads as if they can't believe what they just heard, as if _that_, among everything else they've been hearing, is too much to believe.

"What?" Doreen says. "Are you --. Are you fucking _serious_?"

A lash of power escapes Sam's tight control and Dean can't hold back a wince as the fury of Ge-Rouge passes over him. He lets out a deep breath when he sees Sam's tattoos start to ooze blood again and steps to Sam's side. After last night, knowing that Kita can tangle with Ge-Rouge on equal footing and is willing to ride Dean in order to do so, Dean's sticking right next to his brother -- just in case.

"If we try to help everyone," Dean says, "we'll fail. We have to pick our battles. We can't spread ourselves out too much or we'll be just as vulnerable as everyone else. And yeah, we have the loa, but we're not invincible. We'd die if we went up against guns; we're only human."

Doreen bares her teeth and Dean instantly does the same, loosening himself up for a fight. His pulse is racing, heart galloping inside of him. Ogou crows, ready for war, for battle, for a visible enemy who he can tear apart with his hands in the midst of all of this hopelessness. He wants to kill her, wants to rip her flesh into pieces, has for days, but right now he doesn't think anyone would blame him if he just _lost_ it and she ended up a rag-tag pile of meat and bones.

"Shouldn't have even asked you," Doreen snarls. "You're not from here; this ain't your city. What do _you_ care if it goes under, huh? Pretty little white boys, you can just get in your fancy-ass car and leave this fucked-up city to the rest of us, that what you thinking?"

If Ogou wasn't twined so tight with Dean, the pair of them seeing out of the same eyes at the same time, if he hadn't felt the full force of Ge-Rouge and Kita last night, then Dean's sure he would've flinched at the malevolent hate dripping out of Doreen's mouth. "That what you think of us?" he asks. "Is that _really_ what you think? That we don't care about this city as much you? That we couldn't possibly want it back to normal as much as you? _Fuck you_," Dean growls. "These aren't your people. This isn't your city. This is _my_ city."

Doreen laughs, a sound that rings in Dean's ears and makes him want _blood_. "Pretender," she hisses. "White son of a bitch. _W ap plen ak kaka_."

They step towards each other but before they collide in a fury of fists and feet and teeth, the electric scent of Karrefour fills the room and freezes them both in place. "Wastin' time and energy on fightin' each other," the loa spits out. "Right after you say you wanna be helping? Ayah, you provin' something, you _bosal_ horses."

"Then what the fuck are we supposed to do?" Marcus asks Karrefour, though Doreen's taken a couple steps backwards at Karrefour's sudden appearance.

Sam meets each pair of eyes. "We take care of our own," he snaps. "We keep doing what we've been doing. Charity'll make the news; they'll have media all over the hospitals soon enough. But the people we've been trying to ferry out of NOE and the Lower Ninth? They don't have anyone else coming for them except us. So we stick to it."

Emil, who'd been watching the confrontation at Dean's side, with narrowed eyes and arms crossed on his chest, nods. "We have a good supply line set up from the capital," he says. "And a good system for distribution. Best not to mess with that. _Poto mitan_'s right; news about Charity will get out fast and it'll be swarming with national guard. It'd be a good idea for us to stay out of their way."

Doreen stares at Emil, finally says, "You're just gonna -- this is your _home_, Emil."

"And he's my _poto mitan_," Emil replies, the faintest hint of anger underneath the otherwise even timbre of his voice. "Who has the support of my _papalwa_ and my _mamalwa_ both. So if you don't like it, you can get the fuck out of New Orleans and go back to Nashville, because we sure as shit don't want someone you like here."

Two of the other Petro move, stand behind Emil and Dean, clearly lending their support to Emil's words and Sam's decision. Doreen glances around the room, meeting every pair of eyes focused on her, then huffs and tells Emil, "It should've been you or your sister in charge of this city after Mathieu. Never should've trapped his spirit for this white _nèg bosal_." She spits at Dean's feet and leaves, slamming the door behind her. The whole house shakes.

"Sam," Dean says.

"I know," Sam says. "Karrefour will. And it'll come up this afternoon, I'm sure."

A few of the others look confused but Dean just smiles. Every chance he has to confirm the connection between him and Sam just makes him happier, in a way he should probably be embarrassed about. He's not. It feels _good_ to know that Sam can read his thoughts so clearly. It feels _right_.

"For now," Sam tells the group, "we continue as we have been. We want to help everyone, I know -- _I_ want to help everyone. But we can't. Later, once the city's drained, we'll haul in our people and rebuild as much as possible, as fast as possible. For now, we just try and save as many lives as we can. _Konprann_?"

Dean looks around and sees almost everyone nodding. He can't blame them for the looks on their faces, though. He hates this as well.

\--

Marcus is the first to leave the room once it's clear that the discussion is over. Dean turns to Emil, tells him, "Keep an eye on them, or have someone else trustworthy and _strong_ do it. I don't want them out of our sight without knowing exactly where they're heading or who they're talking to."

Emil nods and takes one of the other Petro with him.

The rest of the vodouisantes filter out slowly, in ones and twos, most of them heading back to the Paginot house. Dean watches them leave until Colette's the only one left in the kitchen, the rest of the house quiet.

"I think it's time we have a conversation, Sam," Colette says. Dean glances at his brother, sees resignation in the cant of his shoulders and his long, slow blink.

"Not until Rita gets here," Sam says. Colette raises an eyebrow and Sam admits, "I sent her out to get Valéry this morning. They should be back any time."

Colette smiles, says, "And you still doubt yourself, sometimes." Sam flushes and looks down at the floor. Dean elbows his brother and Colette stands up, smoothing down her skirt. "I'll wait in the front room, then, and keep an eye out for them. You'll hear the door?"

Sam nods and Colette leaves, but not without squeezing both Dean and Sam's shoulders on her way.

Dean waits until he hears the door to the front room close gently, then asks, "A conversation? Valéry? You're giving Rita orders?"

"She said she wasn't doing anything specific for you," Sam says, addressing Dean's last question first. "If she'd been busy, I would've sent someone else. But I think she should be here for this."

"And what is _this_?" Dean asks.

Sam purses his lips. He stands, goes over to the liquor cabinet and pulls out a bottle of whiskey, sets it on the table and takes his seat again. Dean's worried that Sam didn't get shot glasses as well, is even more concerned when Sam opens the bottle and chugs down half a glassful without stopping. Sam pushes the bottle over to Dean and says, "Marinette."

Dean tries to bite back a snarl before it gains breath but he knows he at least scowls, judging by the way Sam flinches. Giving himself time to control his expression, Dean chugs down whiskey as well, letting the burn of it settle him and Ogou.

"Who's Valéry?" Dean asks, once his throat's stopped burning enough to speak.

"Colette's husband and second," Sam replies. "You and Colette, the _konfians kays_, and your seconds, the Petro _mamalwa_ and Rada _papalwa_. It's your city I'd be unleashing her on; you should have your say. And I'd need your help if we decide to release her."

Dean takes another swallow of whiskey before he asks, "You think it's a good idea, then? Letting her out?"

"No," Sam says, shoulders slumping. "But we can use her help. She can take care of ghosts, ghouls, possessions."

Sam trails off, so Dean says, "Come on, you're thinking of something else, too. Tell me. Please."

"The gris-gris we found in the park," Sam says. "The way Ogou locked someone down. Marinette's good at vengeance, at punishment. If she --."

"If she still loves you as much as you love her, she might be willing to help," Dean guesses, finishing a sentence Sam seems unable to. Dean's stomach churns. He doesn't want to rely on Marinette's good will towards them but she might be the best loa for the job. Ogou's a hunter, yes, but Marinette's cold and calculating and sly; she creates plans within plans within plans and will do almost anything to carry them out. "I don't like the idea but that doesn't mean it's a bad one," Dean admits. "We'll have to tell the others _everything_ and let them decide."

Sam grimaces, mutters, "Talk about not liking an idea."

\--

They don't have time for much more before the front door opens and Rita's voice echoes down the hallway. Dean hears Colette as well, along with a man's voice, and sighs.

"We'll take the whiskey," Sam says. He stands up, picks up the bottle that he and Dean have been drinking from, and says, "A different bottle."

Dean wants to laugh, should make a joke, but instead he stands as well and says, "I'll bring the shot glasses."

Sam pauses, says, "Better make them tumblers."

"Right," Dean says.

\--

Dean follows Sam out of the kitchen and down the hallway, but he's the first one into the front room, letting Sam come behind him through the doorway and kick the door closed. Dean nods at Rita, smiles at Colette, and sets the glasses down as he takes in Valéry.

Valéry is tall, taller than Sam by a few inches, and his hair's brushing his shoulders in the same small braids as Colette's. For a moment, Dean thinks the broad shoulders and height, combined with all Valéry's muscles, don't jive with the fact that he's a Rada horse but there's a glint of humour buried deep in his eyes and his smile, when he unleashes it, changes everything about him.

"Nice to meet you," Valéry says, shaking Dean's hand. "Sorry I wasn't at the house when you stopped by a couple days ago. Your car's a real beauty. You keep her in tune?"

Dean finds himself charmed by Valéry and the man's obvious appreciation of the Impala, a shortcut to getting in Dean's good graces.

"_Canny bastard_," Ogou mutters but he doesn't sound displeased, exactly, so Dean's not too worried.

"Practically rebuilt her a couple times," Dean says. "Good to meet you."

He moves to the side, taking the whiskey from Sam and setting that down beside the five glasses, and watches as Valéry greets Sam. Sam holds out his hands and Valéry takes them gently, almost reverently, dropping to one knee as he presses his lips to Sam's knuckles. "_Poto mitan_," he says. "Thank you for welcoming me into your home."

"_Sevitye_," Sam says, before leaning forward and kissing Valéry's forehead, "as you so serve the loa faithfully, be welcome in my home."

Valéry stands, beaming, and moves to the side. Rita greets Sam next, the normal method that Dean's used to: a simple kiss to Sam's knuckles, a simple kiss to Rita's forehead. Colette approaches Sam once Rita's moved away to pour herself a drink and take a seat on one of the armchairs, feet folded up underneath her.

"_Poto mitan_," Colette says, head held high even as her eyes are lowered to the ground. "The Rada _konfians kay_ of this city begs your continuing mercy for the sake of her people, and on behalf of her brothers and sisters in the faith." She curtseys, low to the ground, and holds the position.

Rita chokes on the sip of whiskey she'd taken and when Dean glances at her, she's wide-eyed and gaping at Colette's back.

"_Not a traditional greeting, I gather_," Dean says to Ogou.

"_Only ask for mercy if something need' forgivin'_," Ogou says.

Sam's eyes flick to Dean momentarily; Colette doesn't shake though her calves have to be killing her.

"I recognise you, _konfians kay_," Sam says, and Colette stands in one smooth motion. "And I will grant mercy inasmuch as I am allowed, by my position and by the loa, within the restraints laid out by the strictures of the laws we all follow and which I am ordered to uphold."

Ogou grunts in surprise, murmurs, "_So mercy, but ain't so much as he could be offerin'. That was near an invocation of the bone law, right then._" Dean takes in the way Valéry's eyes are open wide and how Rita's paled, along with Ogou's response, and figures he's missed something _huge_.

Colette inclines her head; she doesn't seem all that surprised and her voice doesn't waver as she says, "I ask for entrance into your home and hope to prove myself worthy of your trust."

Sam offers her his hands and Colette kisses them, one quick peck to each hand, and her eyelids dip when Sam kisses her forehead and says, "Be welcome in my home, _konfians kay_."

Colette moves to Valéry's side and he wraps an arm around, pulls her tight to his side. Dean gets that it's his turn to greet Sam, even though they live together and _are_ together, even without Ogou urging him forward.

"_Poto mitan_," he says, grinning.

"_Mwen solèy_," Sam says in reply, smiling.

Instead of kissing hands and foreheads, they meet in the middle, lips pressed together for what Dean thinks is going to be a chaste kiss. He's surprised -- but definitely not disappointed -- when Sam opens his mouth and licks across the seam of Dean's lips; they make out like horny teenagers for much longer than they really should, with guests in the room.

Sam finally pulls back, still smiling, and tugs Dean over to one of the loveseats, pushing Dean down and then sitting next to him, curling into him. Dean flushes when he sees the other three beaming at them. Valéry leads Colette to the other couch, waiting until she perches gingerly on a cushion before going over to the table with the whiskey. He pours whiskey for Dean and Sam first, then gets drinks for himself and Colette, and sits next to her. She leans into him the way Sam has leaned into Dean, and Dean and Valéry meet each other's eyes and smile; it's easy to see who has the power in each of their relationships, and who provides the support. Dean looks over at Rita, suddenly feeling awkward about her being there alone, but her eyes are shining, watching Sam and Dean together, and she lifts her tumbler in a salute before sipping.

"So," Colette says, drawing Dean's attention. "I think it's time we talked about Marinette."

Valéry's jaw clenches and Rita's smile drops, expression and posture turning tense, but Dean couldn't care less about them, not when he knows how Sam feels, has a hundred memories of how Sam looks after talking about Marinette. Dean wraps an arm around Sam, pulls him tight, fingers almost digging too hard into Sam's shoulder, but it seems to help Sam settle enough to lift up his eyes and say, "It is."

"I don't want her in my city," Colette says bluntly. "She terrifies me. If she goes crazy again, I'm not strong enough to control her. No offense, Dean, but you aren't either, even with Ogou riding you. You're the only one, Sam, and I'm sorry, I hate to say it, but I know how hard it was for you to lock her up. Can you honestly say you'll be able to do it a second time?"

Dean opens his mouth but Sam puts a hand on Dean's knee. "I can and I will," he says. Colette doesn't look like she believes him, not until Sam says, "There are some other things you three should know about."

"Convince me," she says.

Sam turns his head, looks at Dean as if asking permission. Dean nods and when Sam looks back at Colette, Dean glances at Rita, asking her silently to pay very close attention.

"You know about Dennis, about how she was destabilising the Rada here in the city," Sam begins. "And I've told you about other problems I've had with the Rada in other cities, specifically Chicago. But it's spreading and I don't know why."

Colette frowns and untucks herself from Valéry's side, leaning forward, suddenly intent. "Spreading? What do you mean, spreading?"

"We had a delegation come visit before the storm," Sam says. "Sent by the Rada _konfians kays_ of Biloxi and Charleston. And Penny's been --."

He trails off, searching for a delicate way to frame his concerns, but Dean says, "Don't try and gloss over it, Sam. She's been fucking unstable. The Penny we've been dealing with over the last week is nothing like the Penny I remember meeting during the whole shitshow with Dennis. She doesn't trust you anymore, doesn't have any faith in you."

Sam nods -- reluctantly, but he does nod -- and he adds, "Penny and Betsy also sent Petro with their people. It's been a long time since Biloxi's had a Petro _konfians kay_, so I can see where Penny's used to ordering them around, but Brigitte's _here_ and I know she'd been in communication with Betsy. Brigitte didn't ask for any of her people to come down here."

"Have there been any problems with the Petro?" Rita asks. "Or is it just Rada?"

"Doreen told Sam she didn't trust him, right to his face," Dean says. Rita snarls, the hand not holding a glass half-full of whiskey curling into a fist. "And Marcus backed her up. Tony and LaJane are good for now, and so are our people, but if the _konfians kays_ are saying things like that, who's to say they aren't teaching that in their territories?"

Rita sets her glass down and gets up, crossing over to where Sam and Dean are sitting. She drops to her knees in front of them and says, "As _mamalwa_ of this city, I --"

"No," Sam says, cutting her off. She glares at him, opens her mouth, and Sam says it again, except this time he's backed by the power of a dozen loa, irises of his eyes swirling a mix of black and red. "_No_."

"Then," she says, eyes fixed on Dean, "_you_ should ask. We don't want people like that here. We won't allow it."

Dean holds her eyes for long enough so she can see he's thinking about it and thinking hard. "There's more," he finally admits. "You should hear everything before you ask me."

It's not a 'no,' it's a 'wait until you hear more,' and everyone in the room knows it, knows what Dean's opinion on this whole situation is just from that. Rita nods, though she's sullen, and she fills up her glass before she sits down again, this time leaning forward like Colette, nostrils flaring like she's scenting out the currents and undercurrents of the situation.

"What else, then, Sam?" Valéry asks, and Dean understands why he's Rada now, feels the waves of calm flowing outwards from him as he tries to play peacemaker.

"Before the hurricane hit, Dean and I found a gris-gris tuned against me," Sam says.

There's a moment of silence before Rita explodes upwards, muttering under her breath as she paces to the door and then back and forth in front of the window. Colette's also risen, but only halfway off the couch, and she's clearly shocked, one hand over her mouth.

"Where?" she asks. "How?"

Rita stops in front of the door, arms folded across her chest, waiting for an answer as well.

Sam sighs, rubs his temples. "We went to the park. I packed a couple bags, left them alone -- here in the house -- for five or six minutes. The gris-gris was pinned to the middle of the blanket we were going to use. They used a tarantula and a crossed _ouanga_ of Bakulu. Dean and I sent the magic back and Ogou hunted it." Colette's sitting again, on the edge of her seat, and she opens her mouth. Sam holds up a hand and says, "There's more."

"_More_?" she asks, half-whispering, one hand clutching Valéry's arm so tightly that the skin under her fingernails has gone blue. "How can there be _more_?"

"Karrefour has named me his _mato_," Dean says. Before Colette can recover from that shock -- and before Rita can do more than open her mouth -- he adds, "The boundary wards have gone back up. Most of them, at any rate."

"Dean holds a small portion of my power now," Sam adds. "He can pull on it, already has. And -- I think that's everything."

Colette looks horrified and Rita looks furious. Valéry, though, has his eyes narrowed and looks deep in thought. "So with all this trouble," he asks, "why would you even _consider_ letting Marinette out of her prison?"

Sam looks at Dean, then takes a deep breath and turns back to Valéry. "She loved me, once," he says. "She still does, I think, even after everything I've done, to her and apart from her. Kita rode me, which will make her jealous, and someone tried to kill me, which will make her angry. She can put a lot of ghosts and spirits to rest, and she can handle demons and ghouls as well. But she could also be useful in tracking down what's going on. I don't know yet if this is something the loa are doing or if someone in the hierarchy has gone _bosal_ and is pouring poison into other peoples' minds. I don't know if this is something meant for me personally or not. I don't know what's happening or how to fix it, but Marinette can get answers." He scoffs at himself, at his own words, and adds, quietly, "She's always been very good at getting answers."

"I still want punishment," Rita says, once Sam's words have stopped ringing in everyone's ears. "And I want the _konfians kays_ that you named earlier stripped of their loa and out of my city."

"I told Marcus we would deal with him later," Dean tells Sam. "We told Penny and Betsy. We've told a lot of people. And it's later, Sam. We're going to be here a while. I don't want to be helping this city alongside people who're gonna turn around and stab us in the back." Dean looks at Rita, at her bared teeth and feral smile, and then stands up, goes to his knees in front of Sam. "As _konfians kay_ of this city, I ask --."

Sam stops him, just by looking at him. The intensity of Sam's gaze flays Dean down past skin, past blood and muscle and tissue, even past Ogou, sitting in Dean's skull and giving Dean the right words to say, down to bone and marrow and Dean's very essence. Dean would quake if he had anything to hide, would shiver in fear if this wasn't Sam, but it _is_. He belongs to Sam, every part of him, and Sam is his, and Dean has no secrets, is not ashamed to meet the face of his _poto mitan_ and let Sam see _everything_.

The silence in the room stretches out for one minute, then two, then three, and Dean still holds Sam's gaze. His knees ache but he doesn't look away, is focused on Sam to the exclusion of all else. He flinches when he feels movement near him and looks away only to see Rita on her knees next to him.

"_Please_," she says. "Invoke _zo regleman_."

"Invoke _zo regleman_," Dean says.

Sam takes them in, turns his attention to the Rada sitting across the room.

"I agree," Colette says. She sounds unsteady and Dean doesn't know if that's a remainder from her earlier shock or at meeting Sam's eyes, the way he looks now. "Invoke the bone law, Sam."

"All four of us are asking," Valéry says. "Invoke. _Please_."

Dean watches as his brother turns skeletal. It's almost as if Lakwa's riding him but there's nothing of the guédé's good humour in the hollow black pits of Sam's eyes, no sign of Lakwa in the shade of Sam's skull or the inescapable presence of his collarbones and long phalanges as Sam rests his metacarpals on his patellae. Sam's other-ness is so easy to see like this and in a deep corner of Dean's mind, he wonders if Sam has always been this way or if this is a side-effect to having his entire base of power bound back to his body.

"I have been asked to invoke the bone law," Sam says, and his voice isn't Sam but it isn't loa either. It's power and presence and sheer magic, nothing that should be held within one single person, and Dean suddenly _understands_ why everyone is afraid of Sam, why they've been afraid for so long, because if Sam wasn't Sam, if he was any more selfish or any less compassionate, he could have burned the world down with this type of power.

"I have been asked by _papalwa_ and _mamalwa_," Sam goes on, "by _konfians kay_ and _konfians kay_, by Petro and Rada, by man and woman. I have been asked in certainty and in hesitation, in anger and in empathy. I have been asked in unity. As _poto mitan_ and with all my power as is my right, I hereby invoke _zo regleman_."

Ogou crows, whooping in joy. Dean thinks he hears other loa as well, cheering and hollering and stamping, and then he hears weapons being sharpened and smells gunpowder, hears the caw of ravens and smells the tide coming in with force. It's a rush of sensation that comes all at once and disappears just as fast, and when Dean blinks, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears, he looks up at Sam, sees Sam back to normal but slumped back on the couch, looking exhausted.

"And Marinette?" Sam asks, as Dean clambers up next to his brother, worried at the toll this took on Sam because Sam looks like he's halfway dead, ashen and bloodless, too tired to sit up. "What should I do, Colette?"

Colette shakes her head in what Dean thinks isn't an answer but, rather, the complete lack of one. "I don't know," she says, quietly. "I don't trust her, Sam. I never will. But if you think she'll help, then I trust _you_."

Sam smiles, or at least tries to; it's a pitiful attempt but no one calls him on it. "Dean and I will raise her tonight. Warn your people."

"Good luck," Colette says. She stands, Valéry helping her as she seems to have aged as well, not as much as Sam but enough to have her move slowly, carefully. "If there's nothing else, we'll take our leave." Sam nods and she says, "Thank you, _poto mitan_," before hobbling out of the room. Valéry goes with her, nodding a silent goodbye to Sam and Dean, closing the door behind them.

Rita exhales, sits back on her ankles and rubs her face. "You never do anything by half, do you," she says. "Shit."

\--

It takes Sam half an hour before there's enough life in him to move. Rita leaves first, holding the door open for them and then heading out the front as Dean helps Sam upstairs to bed.

"How will we raise her?" Dean asks, once Sam's stripped down to his underwear and is under the thin cotton sheet. He's panting lightly for breath, just from the walk up a couple flights of stairs, and Dean wants to take it back: the meeting, the invocation, the way they came clean with the others. Nothing is worth seeing Sam like this.

"It won't be pretty," Sam says, shifting to get comfortable, eyes closing as his skin flashes back to bone again, for a split-second that Dean could convince himself he imagined if he wanted to. "We'll have to summon a soul to house her, a previous _mambo_, probably. I'll bind the body to obedience before I call her back. Will you help?"

Dean snorts. "That's a stupid question, Sam," he says. "Try and keep me away."

He waits for a response but Sam's already fallen asleep.


	19. Thursday, September 1, 2005 - Part Two

Dean wants nothing more than to climb in bed with Sam but he pulls himself together and leaves the bedroom in search of his father. He finds John across the hall in the living room, listening to WWL on the radio. John looks up when Dean comes in and turns the volume down.

"How'd your meeting go?" John asks. His eyes flick over Dean's shoulder and Dean knows what his father's really asking.

"Sam's fine," Dean says, crossing the room and taking a seat in a chair near the window, across from John. "Just tired. He should be asleep for a couple hours." John raises an eyebrow and Dean rolls his eyes, says, "_Should_."

John laughs, a light whuff of sound, but he still looks worried. "And you?" John asks. "Should you be sleeping, too?"

"Probably," Dean says. He puts an elbow on the chair's arm and pinches the bridge of his nose. "There's too much to do."

"Seems like the place is pretty quiet right now," John says. "And didn't you say that most of your rescue efforts are being coordinated out of a different house?"

Dean is about to bare his teeth but he reins in the urge and tells Ogou to shut up. "Sam and I have to leave tonight," he says bluntly. "We have something to do."

"Then I'm coming with you," John says. Dean opens his mouth and John adds, "You won't convince me otherwise. You're safe here, relatively speaking, so if you're leaving this house, I'm going with you."

Dean narrows his eyes. "You won't like it," he says. "It's vodou shit, _serious_ vodou shit. Something any other hunter would happily kill us for even thinking about doing. Are you telling me you're okay with that?"

To his credit, John actually stops and thinks about it. "You gonna be killing anyone?" John asks.

He's halfway joking, has the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his lips, until Dean says, "Yes." The smile drops and the glint of humour in John's eyes disappears. "We're going to put a soul in a _zombi_ and bind it to obedience," Dean adds. He doesn't know much about what Sam's planning, not much more than what he's already told his father, but he doesn't want to sugar-coat the truth of what's going to happen later. "It's going to be brutal. Neither of us want to do it but it needs to be done, so Sam's going to unleash an ensouled _zombi_ on the city and I'm going to help him."

If John was any other man, Dean thinks, he'd be gaping. "Dean," he breathes. "Are you --. Have you lost your mind?"

"None of us have ever really been sane," Dean says, grinning just for a moment before he turns serious again. "And I probably shouldn't have told you that much. But if you're going to go with us, you need to be prepared."

"I don't know if I can watch you do that," John says.

Dean shrugs, says, "Then you can't come."

John looks at him, searches Dean's eyes, and Dean wishes he knew what his father was looking for. "You're sure you have to do this," he asks. "You've exhausted all other options?"

"This is the best way to do what needs to be done," Dean says. He doesn't know that for a fact but he knows how reluctant Sam is to release Marinette, so Sam choosing this method, among what other options he may have, says a lot. "Believe me, I'm not keen on it either. But it has to be done and this is how we're doing it."

"When?" John asks.

Dean checks his watch, figures Sam will want to wait at least until full dark and probably beyond, and they'll need food as well. "Close to midnight would be my guess," he says.

John nods, leans back in the chair. "Let me know when we're heading out."

\--

Dean goes downstairs and takes a bottle of whiskey out to the courtyard. He pours some out in front of Ogou then makes himself comfortable, taking a couple of pulls from the bottle once he's sitting, legs stretched out in front of him.

"I think we need to talk," he says, out loud because he's relatively sure that his father's the only other person in the house who'd care about what hes saying and John's got too much on his mind to notice or listen in.

Ogou grunts, says, "_Do we_?" like Dean's just asked him to do something completely foreign. "_What 'bout_, cheval?"

"_Zo regleman_," Dean says. "The bone law. I know what Sam's said about it before and what you've told me and what Mathieu knew, but none of the stuff I know says anything about Sam turning _literally_ to bone, or why he and Colette were so exhausted."

"_'S a reason the _chevaux_ only swear to uphold it_," Ogou says. "_Invocation is diff'rent._"

Dean rolls his eyes and tips out a little more whiskey for Ogou. "Different how?"

"_Invocation takes power_," Ogou says. "_Pull, as what the dwarf called it in the desert. That's how we test whether someone's strong enough to be _poto mitan_. If they have enough pull, enough power, to invoke -- if they do, if they can, then they rule._"

"If not?" Dean asks.

He has a feeling he knows the answer, especially when it takes Ogou a long handful of moments to say, "_They die. Only way to survive the test is to become _poto mitan_, and _cheval_, the _poto mitan_ is the literal law. When he invokes, he _embodies_ the law. The law becomes flesh and blood, a living thing. No one's gonna be able to fight the law now. They'll have to follow it or they can try fightin' until it kills 'em. Be int'resting to see how long it takes before my _trezò_ has to take care of a challenge._"

Dean takes that in, thinks about his brother down in Haiti with only Lissa and a couple crazy horses for back-up, facing the leaders of the faith and going through a test that just as likely could have killed him. Sometimes Dean wishes he could go back in time and smack his brother upside the head. "And Colette? Why did it take so much out of her?"

"_Since he invoked 'cause o' the Rada, primarily, the invocation pulls from the Rada leader. If he'd had to do it for the Petro, it'd be coming from you_."

"I almost wish it would," he tells Ogou. "Did you see the way Sam looked? It's like it aged him fifty years."

Ogou croons at him, tries to soothe his worries. "_He be okay_," Ogou tells him. "_It be takin' a minute or two to get used to, but my _trezo_ has more than enough power to support _zo regleman_. Once he get a bit of sleep, he'll be fine._"

Dean harrumphs, takes another couple pulls of whiskey. "Fine just in time to go deal with his ex-girlfriend," he says. "I don't like this, Ogou. Not one bit."

"_No one do_, cheval," Ogou reminds him. "_And she ain't his ex-girl. She his _cher tèt_. Used to be, anyways_."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Dean asks.

Ogou hesitates and when Dean prods him for an answer, the loa says, "_Means something deep. Something tight._"

Dean's stomach churns. He chugs the whiskey, this time, in hopes it'll settle the illness he can feel roiling in his belly. It doesn't help that much. "Random question," he says. "How does that compare to, say, naming someone your _solèy_?"

Ogou swats him, hard enough that Dean feels the sting of it. "_Don't compare one bit_," Ogou says. "Poto mitan_ named you his sun_, cheval_. Ain't nothing on this world living without its sun. Ayah_?"

"Ayah," Dean says, and tips out another shot's worth of whiskey for his loa.

\--

Dean and Ogou finish the bottle of whiskey; Dean should feel drunk but he's pleasantly buzzed, just tipsy enough to feel comfortable tilting his head back, closing his eyes against the glare of the sun, falling asleep.

He dreams -- he's not sure of what, exactly, something to do with glittering miles of glass and mirrors, the heat of the desert and the smell of blood spilled onto dry sand, feels like he wakes up with screams echoing in his bones though there's nothing except the _badjikan_ rapping his knuckles on the doorframe.

"_Papalwa_," the _badjikan_ says, cautious, wary, like Dean's woken up with madness in his eyes and flesh under his nails, bone caught between his teeth. "'Zulie said to be wakin' you up."

Dean stands, worried at the tone of the _badjikan_'s voice. "'Zulie? Is everything okay? Sam?"

The _badjikan_ shakes his head, says, "Ev'rything's the same as it was, near as I can tell. It's jus' gettin' late. Y'all'll need food 'fore you go waking up the bitch."

Marinette. Dean had almost forgotten.

"How much do you like this idea?" Dean asks, stretching, back and shoulders popping after his impromptu nap. Sleeping in the sun's nice but not on stone; he's getting too old for this shit.

"Prob'ly 'bout as much as you," the _badjikan_ says. "Word's gone 'round, chile. You really think this is the best way forward?"

Dean lets out a breath. "No," he says. "But I have a feeling it's the only one. And I know that however much I hate it -- _we_ hate it -- Sam hates it more."

The _badjikan_ tilts his head, meets Dean's gaze head on. "You sure 'bout that?"

No. No, Dean's not sure of anything. He hasn't been sure of anything since they got down here. He hasn't been sure of anything since the night he carried Sam out of their burning house in Lawrence. There have been times where he's not even sure of Sam. Sam is his choice, though. This, all of it, New Orleans and vodou and Ogou, it's Dean's choice. Sam has given Dean enough room to run, has even done the running once or twice so Dean doesn't have to, and yet they're still here, together, bound by love and family and the loa -- and choice. Always choice.

Marinette was Sam's choice, once. Locking her up was his choice, too. Letting her out is Sam's choice and it might be out of some misguided love or affection or whatever was once between them, but Dean asked Sam to invoke the bone law and Sam asked Dean to help him raise Marinette.

"Sure enough," Dean finally says.

The _badjikan_ pushes his breath out through his teeth, lets his eyes flick to the statue of Erzulie. "I hope you know what you're doing."

Dean snorts. "Me too," he says. "Me fucking too."

\--

Dean and the _badjikan_ get some food together -- nothing fancy, just some peanut butter and honey sandwiches, couple bags of chips, bottles of Gatorade -- and head up to the third floor. Dean leaves the tray of food with John, goes across the hall to the bedroom, creeps inside and just watches Sam.

"What else happened?" the _badjikan_ asks, leaning in the doorway. When Dean looks, the _badjikan_ meets his eyes, then turns back to Sam, concern clearly written all over his face. "Colette here, you and the chile sleeping away hours when I know both of you'd love to be doin' more." 

"What do you think happened?" Dean asks. He's got his eyes pinned on the _badjikan_, sees the minute twitch of the muscles around the _badjikan_'s eyes, the gleam of Erzulie Freda caught in the slight moue of disgust as the _badjikan_'s lip curls.

The _badjikan_ lets out a breath, says, "_Zo reglemen_," in a tone that suggests he's half-guessing. "It'd take the four of you that was down there to ask for it, explain why the girl left looking so unsteady." Sam, curled in on himself, arms wrapped around a pillow, moves and Dean looks back in time to see Sam flash to bone once, twice. "Explain that, too," the _badjikan_ adds.

"It'll stop," Sam says. He rolls over, looks at the _badjikan_ and then turns his sleepy-eyed gaze on Dean. "Soon."

Dean moves, sits on the edge of the bed next to Sam. He reaches out, touches Sam's arm and feels bone under his fingertips. "Yeah?" he asks.

Sam smiles up at him, lifts a hand to cover Dean's with his own. "Yeah."

"'Zulie said you was dreaming of glass," the _badjikan_ says, still hovering, still _there_. Dean wants to snarl for a little privacy but the fierce pleasure in the _badjikan_'s tone gives him pause. "Of mirrors."

Dean narrows his eyes. "What does that mean? Why is that important?"

"It's not," Sam says. "Not yet, anyway."

"You've started the rite," the _badjikan_ says, and the amount of vicious glee in his voice is more Danny than 'Zulie Freda, sounds vaguely disconcerting coming from the _badjikan_.

Sam shakes his head, says, "Readied, not started. The first challenge will activate it."

The _badjikan_ chuckles. "Good," he says. "Good on you, chile."

With that, the _badjikan_ goes away, leaving Sam and Dean alone. Dean looks at his brother, takes in the pale skin, the shadows under his eyes, and says, "You look less like death warmed over, at least."

Sam moves closer, close enough to lean his forehead against Dean's leg, close enough that Dean can hear the slight hum of pleasure Sam lets out as they touch. "The rite," Sam murmurs. "You don't need to worry about it. The loa know you. _I_ know you. You won't need to go through it."

"Maybe I should," Dean says, as Ogou tells him things about the rite -- the Rite of Mirrors, the Glass Judgment. It sounds terrifying, or would, if Dean hadn't already gone through it, to a certain extent, and before he was even technically a vodouisante. "Better not to give anyone a reason to talk."

"They won't be talking," Sam says.

Dean gets chills -- he does every time Sam sounds so much like Karrefour.

"You didn't ask me to be an anchor," Dean says, question implied.

Sam looks up at him, all that silly, headstrong love in his face that Dean never gets tired of seeing. "I don't want you to anchor the rite," Sam says. "I want you with me." Before Dean can respond to that, try to come up with words to explain what hearing that has done to him, Sam adds, "Besides, I think we both know who's going to get pulled into the desert to face the mirrors. You should be on this side to take care of the bodies."

That makes Dean laugh. He leans down, practically bends himself in half, and kisses Sam.

\--

John's eaten two sandwiches and the crusts off a third by the time Dean and Sam join their father across the hallway in the sitting room. They sit on the couch, one at each end and oceans of space between them. John nudges the tray of food, sitting on the coffee table between them, closer to Sam; Sam doesn't reach out for any food. Neither does Dean.

"You're still gonna do -- what'd you say, the _zombi_ thing?" John asks. He's not looking at Dean but Dean can feel the burn of John's attention, fully focused. "Haven't changed your mind?"

Sam looks at Dean, eyebrow raised.

"Yeah," Dean says, fiddling with a bottle cap. "No, we haven't changed our minds. Have you changed yours? No one would blame you for sitting this out. Might even be better that way, Dad."

John nods, says, "I know. But I'm going with you."

"Do you still have the Colt?" Sam asks.

John stares Sam down, finally says, "Yes. And the three bullets left in it. Why?"

Sam glances at Dean and takes a deep breath. "I think you should bring it. Just in case."

Dean moves at that, just a split-second shift of his entire body, yearning to cross the distance between him and Sam, ask _one more time_ if this is -- not a good idea, because of course it's not a good idea -- a necessary action. That gun will kill anything and if Sam wants the Colt nearby to deal with a demon, fine, but if it's for Marinette? That's insane.

"In case?" Dean asks.

Sam meets Dean's eyes for a moment, then smiles, just one corner of his mouth. "We locked her up," he says. "_I_ locked her up. There's no guarantee she survived that with her sanity intact. And even if she did, I may be wrong about how she feels. I don't think I am, but I could be. It's just a precaution."

Dean shakes his head but doesn't say anything else.

John looks between his sons, finally says, "I already grabbed it," and Dean's not surprised at all, but he is taken aback when John adds, "If you're not gonna eat, then I think we've wasted enough time talking about this, boys. Tell me where we're heading and let's get moving."

Sam looks at his father, really _looks_, and Dean shifts on the couch because this is the first time that John Winchester has ever faced down the _poto mitan_ of the vodouisantes, their leader and most influential figure. John stiffens and Dean reacts by moving closer to Sam, close enough to touch; John's eyes flick to Dean, pause on him for a moment, then go back to Sam.

"It should be Bayou St. John," Sam finally answers. "But considering that's completely underwater, we'll go to Congo Square."

"Why can't you just do what you need to do in the back?" John asks.

It's a good question, one Dean had as well but chose not to ask, figuring that Sam has a good enough reason and it's probably not one that Dean wants to hear. He can't fault his father, though; John's not a vodouisante, he hasn't seen Sam in action, hasn't seen how the people here react to Sam, not really. John's a hunter, a damn good one, and suspicious of everything. He's always needed to be in control, to know what's happening and why at every minute, and that's like an unstoppable force meeting Sam's immovable object, judging by the way Sam's not answering.

"It's complicated," Dean says. He hates playing peacemaker between these two, no matter how many years of practice he has. It never gets easier. But right now, knowing what he knows about what they're getting ready to do and who's waiting for them at the end of it, he just wants to get this over with. "But we're going to Congo Square. You don't have to come if you don't want to, dad. We won't fault you for that."

"You may not," John says with a wry smile, "but I sure as hell would. All right. Let's go."


	20. Friday, September 2, 2005 - Part One

Congo Square is a couple blocks out to Rampart and then over. Dean's walked a similar path so many times but tonight feels different. It could be the lack of light, the quiet noise leaking out from an open door or window every so often, the faintest hint of sounds wafting from Bourbon on a sluggish breeze. It could be that Sam's leading the way and Dean's walking next to his father when so often it's just him and Sam, together, sometimes even holding hands in this city that's adopted them the way they've adopted it. It could be any of those things, and they're all probably part of it, but Dean is on his way to watch Sam raise a _zombi_ and, as if that wasn't bad enough, unlock Marinette from her prison.

Dean feels sick and even knowing Ogou's attention is focused on Sam's ass and the minute hint of Danny in the swing of Sam's hips isn't helping.

"_Should let it_," Ogou says. "_Think mebbe we'll --_"

"_Don't you dare even think about finishing that sentence_," Dean tells his loa. "_Have you completely forgotten what's about to happen_?"

Ogou curses under his breath, says, "Idyo. _'Course not. Just trying to think o' something that'll make this better. Something to look forward to_."

"_Look forward to nothing_," Dean mutters.

Sam's head turns a little, as if he's about to look over his shoulder, but he stops himself and keeps walking. Dean frowns and a moment later, Ogou says, "Poto mitan_ said to be tellin' you to shut up and that y'all can fuck when you get back to the house._"

"_Bet he told you to shut up as well_," Dean snaps back, and this time Sam can't hide a snort.

Dean can feel his father's gaze on him and turns to meet it, urged on by Ogou and the need to attack _something_. Before he can do anything, though, Sam says, "We're here."

\--

They make their way into the square, trying to get out of sight of the road. Between the time of night and the curfew, they shouldn't have to worry about anyone walking through, but it never hurts to be as careful as they possibly can.

Sam finally picks a spot, grass squelching beneath his feet as he takes off one shoe, then the other. It's just barely light enough for Dean to see Sam curl his toes into the grass, look up at the sky, and close his eyes. Silent prayer, Dean thinks, as their father steps back a few paces and to the side, taking out the Colt as he positions himself sideways, half-turned so he can watch their backs as well as the entrance to the park.

"Is this the right thing?" Sam asks, just loud enough for Dean to hear. "Should we really be doing this?"

"You'll be fine," Dean murmurs. "We can do this and go home. Dad has the Colt, I have your creation box, and you're -- Sam, we all -- this is the best idea we have."

Sam looks straight in front of him, into the darkness. It's unnaturally quiet, as if the square knows what they're here to do and is holding its breath as well, waiting to see what happens. "This isn't the best idea, it's the only idea. We could be rushing into it. Maybe we should wait."

"We're here, we're doing this," Dean says. "Don't be scared to see her again, okay?" Sam nods and swallows; if their father weren't here, then Dean would crowd forward and press his body against Sam's, calming him with contact, kissing the doubts out of Sam's brain. But John is here, so Dean just says, in a low Kreyòl that he hopes John can't hear, "_Mo lemme t'oi_."

"Me too," Sam says. "Okay. I can do this."

He nods, takes a deep breath, and then steps forward, the apex of their Winchester triangle. Dean can taste the electric wave of Karrefour coming off of Sam, loa of the crossroads present as Sam pulls with his power hard enough for Dean to feel. The end of the tether disappears into another world, another plane of existence, but Dean nearly loses his balance the second it attaches to something and yanks that something towards them. 

Dean looks around them in every direction; John, tense with the Colt in one hand, does the same. When Dean looks back, he sees Sam, first, standing tall, feels the loa moving in him, and then his eyes move past Sam and land on a demon with glowing red eyes. The demon's watching Sam, standing there not doing anything; her black hair is slick and hangs in restless waves around her face, down her back. Her skin is perfectly clear, no trace of sweat even in the muggy air, and her dress is as dark as the feeling Dean remembers of Marinette riding his body.

"The boy king," she says. "Little Sammy Winchester, all grown up and twisted away from us, from what he's supposed to be. Why have you called me, Sam?"

John makes a low sound in the back of his throat. The demon looks at him, seems as if she's going to roll her eyes but changes her mind when she sees the Colt. "And Papa-bear with the fabled gun. You killed the king of hell with that gun, Papa-bear, and left us in anarchy." Ogou writhes, restless in the back of Dean's head; Dean calls the loa forward, lets Ogou crowd around his mind, wrap him in heat and the bloodlust of fire. The demon's eyes snap to him, then. She scowls at him, says, "And with the king dead, the heir turned away from us, what's left? Scrounging at the gates to Guinée? I don't think so."

She spits, clump landing on Dean's shoe. Ogou smiles at her, baring his teeth. "He chose us, devil-child. He ain't your leader no more. Pick a new one and stop wasting our time."

"Summon me and I'll waste as much of your damned time as I want," she hisses back, surging forward. She hits the wave of power flowing off of Karrefour, though, and grimaces.

"Cousin," Karrefour murmurs, reaching out, caressing her cheek. "That any way to speak to one who's sent so many your way?"

Cousin. The loa of the night crossroads, a demon of the crossroads, too alike to be anything but kin, and Dean's suddenly wondering what the hell they're doing.

"_Trust 'im,_" Ogou soothes. "_You know 'im. We all know 'im. M' _trezo_ ain't gonna do nothing too stupid. He's not that much of an _idyo."

"_You'd be surprised_," Dean mutters back.

Ogou scoffs and says, "_Hush now or you be missing it_."

"I suppose you have sent some to me," the demon says, a sly smile on her face as she ignores Dean and John to circle Karrefour. She trails a finger along the line of his shoulders and comes to a stop next to Karrefour, the both of them staring out into the damp darkness, side-by-side.

A pair of crossroad demons, Dean thinks, and shivers even though the heat has sweat pouring down his back.

"You know why I'm here, cousin," Karrefour says, the words quiet, almost disappearing into the silence around them. "I gave you plenty o' warning. Will you fight me?"

"You gave us the restless," the demon says. "A few of them had power. Enough to balance out Lala. But she's been ours for a while now. And you didn't send the restless ones to _me_, just to hell. That's no kind of bargaining chip. It's an accident."

Karrefour snorts. "Your kind always was knotted up in legalities," he says.

The demon faces Karrefour and strokes one fingernail down his cheek. "Your kind, my kind," she says. "We're both about intention. You intended hell for them, but not hell in the place of one we already have. I'm well within my rights to refuse."

"But you ain't gonna," Karrefour says. When the demon doesn't say anything to contradict him, Karrefour throws his head back and laughs.

The sound spirals out in the night and eats away at the silence until half a dozen snakes come swimming through the water, hissing and writhing against each other. John mutters a curse when he sees them but Dean's too focused on the clash of power he can feel, the demon's pure darkness as it collides against the wave coming off of Karrefour, the trace tang of smoke and hellfire riding the edges of a deep, twisted darkness. Dean's not sure who's winning, not at first, but then he hears hellhounds whimpering in pain and he sneezes with the outpouring of a smoke that smells of dirt and ash and bone.

"Cousin," Karrefour says, as the snakes twine in a figure eight around his legs and the demon's, back and forth, so fast that they almost look like one giant snake. "Ain't nothing of Lala gonna be complainin' out here on the surface, if that be what you worrying 'bout. Now, do we got a deal?"

Dean winces at the look on the demon's face and the sight of blood staining Karrefour's arms, dripping down onto the waterlogged grass and staining it black. The demon reaches out and smears Karrefour's blood on her fingertips. She traces a symbol on her palm in Karrefour's blood and holds out one hand. Karrefour takes her hand; John makes a move to stop Karrefour, to say something, but he checks himself before Dean or Ogou have to.

"We have a deal," the demon says. "One Miss Lala in exchange for all those restless spirits. I'd like her back, someday."

"All too soon," Karrefour says, and Sam and the demon kiss. Dean can see tongue and wants to gag.

\--

In a haze of ozone that might come from the demon or from Sam's loa, Dean's not sure which, the demon disappears. Sam shakes his arms over the snakes, spattering his blood on their backs, and they start to whirl in front of him.

"Sam?" John asks.

"Wait," Dean says, because he can feel the change in power, the camphor scent of Maman Brigitte rising from the ground and drifting to coil around the snakes. They move faster and faster, dancing, even, as Sam starts to chant in Kreyòl.

Dean recognises the first few words, the charm on his neck translating as Mathieu's _konesan_ gives Dean an idea of what they actually mean.

"_Gran Brijit_," Sam says, "_Maman Brigitte, I call upon you, I summon you, I wish to beg a boon of you. Rise up from your rest, bind up your head, tie up your belly. One of ours is dead and I want her back._"

Sam's chanting quiets down but he starts talking faster and faster, words slipping back and forth from Kreyòl into French. Dean can't really hear what Sam's saying and doesn't think he'd understand even if he could; it's his _konesan_'s Sam using now, not a normal invocation.

The chanting lasts three minutes and then a shockwave of camphor spreads out from the space in front of Sam. The darkness turns to shadow as the camphor keeps pulsing, starting at an even tempo and then turning, very slowly, into the rhythm of a heartbeat. When the heartbeat sounds normal, steady, a woman steps out of the shadow. She's small, thin, her skin pulled tight over bones. Her cheekbones are her most noticeable feature, so prominent that they're sharp as knives -- that is, until she opens her eyes. The woman's eyes are like the demon's, jet black and deep with all the force of hell behind them.

"Mamma Lala," Sam says. "Welcome."

She glances from Sam to Dean, dismissing John with a flick of her eyes. "Where?" she asks, voice rasping. She shakes her head, coughs, and spits out two crickets covered in gravedirt. "When?"

"Congo Square," Sam says. Lala's eyes widen, then narrow as she glances around again, seeing the snakes this time and studying them for a moment before looking back at Sam. "2005. There was a hurricane. I pulled you from hell to house a loa."

"Which loa?" she asks.

Sam studies Lala just as she'd looked him over a scant few seconds before. "Marinette," he finally says.

Lala stares at Sam, then starts to laugh. She looked unassuming before, all skin and knobby bones, but the laugh -- the laugh is different. The laugh comes out of her throat, from way down deep in her belly, and turns her sinister; it's a bloodcurdling set of screeches that show off her jagged teeth.

"_Poto mitan_ ain't got the balls to hold the Bwa-Chech in place?" she asks, smirk hovering at the corners of her mouth. "'S'why we always had a mamma in charge of our people, not some pansy-assed white gentleman. Get out my way, boy, and take them others with you. Lala's back; I'll deal with my people myself."

"No," Sam says. "Now _stay put_."

Lala scoffs, says, "I ain't a slave, child and you ain't a master I gotta bow and scrape to. I may not know what the world's like in this day and age, but I'm a free woman and I ain't gotta take shit from you."

"I'm your _poto mitan_," Sam says. "You --"

"Like _shit_ you is," Lala spits, cutting Sam off. "I ain't recognise you. And if you pulled me back to handle your business for you, then no one else better be kneein' and scrapin' to you."

Sam takes a deep breath and gestures Dean forward. Lala goes to step back but simply wavers where she's standing, snakes curled around her feet, ankles, and shins anchoring her in place. "I'm sorry," Sam says, as he opens his creation box and takes out a thin wafer. Lala fights the snakes, spitting out a few words of power that send drops of water flying six feet up into the air. As she's cursing, nails raking Sam's face and arms and chest, Sam shoves the wafer in her mouth and then holds her jaws closed, covering her nose as well.

"Your soul to hell," Karrefour snarls. "Your power locked to your body."

Lala swallows and the fight leaves her body, light leaving her eyes. She stands there, calm and -- somehow, Dean doesn't know how and doesn't _want_ to know how -- empty.

"This body recognises my power," Sam says.

"I recognise," Lala echoes, and one snake twines its way upwards, circles Lala's left arm from wrist to shoulder.

John takes a step closer to Sam, says, "I don't think we should be doing this. Sam. For fuck's sake, stop it!"

Sam waves his hand over his shoulder and John lets out a high-pitched noise; Dean looks back to see his father clawing at his mouth. His lips have been sewn shut.

"_Told 'im to keep quiet_," Ogou murmurs, soothing Dean's immediate need to check on his father, to tell Sam to take it back, take it off. "_Sooner you let m' _trezo_ finish, sooner you can be checking on your daddy._"

"This body recognises my authority as _poto mitan_," Sam's saying. Dean turns his attention back to his brother, leaves their father kneeling on the ground and staring up at his sons with betrayal in his eyes.

Lala echoes Sam again. "I recognise."

Sam pulls an empty plastic baggie out of his creation box as another snake goes up Lala's body, curling around Lala's right arm from wrist to shoulder. He takes out a pair of scissors as well, cutting off a piece of Lala's hair before taking a fingernail clipping. Those go in the baggie and he sets the scissors back in his creation box before taking a deep breath and digging out some needle nose pliers from the bottom of the box. Dean feels sick, watching as Sam pries Lala's mouth wide open and yanks out a tooth from the back of her jaw with little ceremony. He drops the tooth into the baggie as well and lets go of the pliers, relieved to be rid of them, Dean thinks.

"This body will _obey_," Sam says.

"I obey," Lala answers.

A third snake winds around Lala's neck. Sam takes out a knife and makes a shallow cut in Lala's left palm, squeezing the skin so that a few drops of her blood mix with the fingernail, hair, and tooth he's already taken. He then adds some of his blood from the cracked vévés on his arms, mixes everything together with the knife, and seals the baggie.

With that done, Sam takes a deep breath. The sense of power and magic in the air is hanging heavily, pressing against Dean's chest and making it -- not hard to breathe, not yet, but he's well aware of every inhale and exhale.

"Almost there," Dean says, and there are strands of Ogou in his voice as well. Neither of them like to see Sam under this much strain and knowing what's coming isn't helping.

"Yeah," Sam says. He doesn't move, though, just stands there, staring at Lala, at her empty eyes and the snakes around her. Dean doesn't push; as far as he's concerned, the less time Marinette spends out of her prison and in their world with a body of her own, the better.

Sam takes another deep breath and says, "Okay. Loa forgive me." He reaches out, places his palm on Lala's forehead, and says, "Marinette. With all the power of the loa and _zo reglemen_ at my back, with Bondye above me and _le gran met_ in front of me, I bind you to this body and give you leave to move to and within it. Come."

The change is visible almost immediately. Something fills Lala's eyes, something that isn't Lala, that isn't demon -- Dean's never seen this something before but he's felt it, been possessed by it.

"Heya," Lala -- no, not Lala, _Marinette_ says. "My _poto mitan_ and my little horse of a hunter. Well, well, well. Is my sentence done and served?"

"No," Sam says. "And don't think you have free reign now that you're out of your prison. Feel the body you're in, Marinette? It belongs to me. I _own_ it."

Marinette lifts her hands to study them, raising an eyebrow when she sees the snakes. Graceful fingers slide along the snake wrapped around her neck; she laughs when she looks down and smoothes wrinkles in her cotton shift that Dean can't see.

"You own this body?" Marinette asks. "I see you remember your lessons; the _zombi_'s well made. But I never thought you'd bring back slavery, Samuel Winchester."

"I haven't," Sam says.

"And yet when you had the choice of a body to house me," she says, "you don't pick a white girl. Not even a light-skinned quadroon. What else am I supposed to think?" Her eyes gleam and she croons, "Or are you one of them perverts, hmm? You only like fucking black girls? You did like Marie and Sophie, Samuel Winchester. That why you brought me back like this? The mambo's skinnier than them girls you like, but it won't take long for me to put a few pounds on her, not in this city."

She takes one step closer to Sam and Dean leaps forward, blocking her path. He snarls at her, showing his teeth. Marinette laughs and waves her hand; she seems shocked when Dean doesn't go flying and even more stunned when Ogou leans forward, gets right in her face, and says, "_Sister_."

"Silence," Sam says, just as Marinette's recovered from the surprise and opening her mouth. "You will be silent, Marinette. You will not talk, not to me, not to Dean, not to any person, not to any loa or wolf or revenant. You'll do what I tell you, only what I tell you. You will not attempt to communicate with anyone or anything other than me. You will not _touch_ anyone. Nod if you understand."

Dean can see Marinette's jaw flex; she's clenching her teeth. Against her will, judging from the fury blazing in her eyes, she nods once.

"New Orleans was hit by a hurricane," Sam goes on. Marinette's eyes widen and Sam gives her a hard smile. "The levees broke. Half the city is flooded. I would not have let you out if we didn't have need of your skills. I want you to do two things. I've given _pakets_ to a dozen Petro; they've released the spirits from the graveyards and cemeteries throughout the city. Others got free; I want you to deal with them. While you're walking the city, I want you to help however you can, in a manner I would approve of. Avoid being seen if you can. Engage with _no one_. Come back to me if you're in trouble, if you need help, or when you're finished. The snakes will be my binding, my eyes and ears on you, but they'll also lead you to me if you need me. Nod if you understand."

Marinette nods.

Sam takes a deep breath. "I'm going to ask you to do something else," he says. "You have a choice in this but I ask you to consider carefully." Marinette's eyes narrow and she tilts her head in interest. "Someone is trying to kill me," Sam says bluntly. Her eyes widen, then her entire face changes, turning dark and murderous and vengeful. "I would ask that you track that person or group down. And I would ask that, if you decide to do so, you let me handle them."

Marinette shakes her head instantly.

"You can be there," Sam says, "but if anyone's going to be putting down a _bosal_ horse, it's going to be me."

"And me," Dean says, Ogou's tone flavouring his voice.

Marinette glances between them. Her look toward Dean is thoughtful, assessing, and he shudders at it, remembering the way she rode him and used him and made him feel how much she wanted to kill Sam. But then she looks at Sam and Dean's shudders turn to chills. He doesn't like the look in her eyes -- the sadness he understands, and the trepidation. It's the respect he's not sure about, that and the faintest glimmerings of regret and something that looks an awful lot like love.

She lifts her hands as if to say, '_We'll see_.'

Sam takes one step closer to her, lifts a hand and runs the back of his fingers down her cheek. The snake around Marinette's neck hisses at him but she closes her eyes at his touch, leaning into him. Dean aches to see it.

"Go," Sam says, and with what looks genuine effort, he steps away and turns his back on Marinette.

Without a sound, Marinette turns and disappears into the darkness.

\--

Sam closes his eyes and steels himself for a moment. Dean's not sure why, not until he turns around and sees what Sam's looking at, then all he can do is grimace. Their father is still crouched on the ground, Colt in his hands, lips sewn together. The gun's not pointed at Sam, thankfully, and even as Dean's wondering why not, just how their father's overridden his instincts, Sam's undoing the spell.

"Thank god you didn't have a cold," Dean says. He winces when neither Sam nor John seem to appreciate his comment.

"You just made a deal with a crossroads demon," John says, "before you raised a woman from the dead, banished her soul back to hell, and pulled a loa into her body, one that you bound as your slave. _Sam_."

Dean's ready to say something -- what, he's not sure -- but Sam brushes fingers against Dean's wrist, a silent plea that Dean understands the meaning of all too well. He glances at Sam, enough to see that Sam's looking before he nods, sharply, just once.

"I'm not going to apologise," Sam says. "I just --. With everything --." He trails off once or twice more, trying to pull words together and failing miserably each time. Finally, Sam just says, "I do what I have to."

John stands up. There's censure in his eyes as he keeps a steady gaze on Sam, censure and respect and a lot of love and a little fear. It's the last that breaks Dean's heart, sends it shattering into a thousand pieces with such force that he's surprised no one jumped with the noise of it. If Dean can see that fear, that distance, then Sam can as well.

"I didn't raise you boys any other way," John says. It's almost an apology, but not enough of one.

"We should get back," Dean says, and if he's careful to make sure their father can't get behind him and Sam, then that's Ogou's fault and not another crack in his heart.


	21. Friday, September 2, 2005 - Part Two

They make it back to the house without any trouble, John and Sam leading the way side-by-side, Dean behind them. They don't talk, barely even look at each other. Even Ogou, settled anxiously at the base of Dean's skull, is silent. 

It's almost a surprise when, as they get back to the house and see the _badjikan_ waiting by the open door, the _badjikan_ asks Sam, "She out, then, chile? I gotta worry?"

"She's out," Sam says, "but bound as tight as I could. You'll be fine. We all will."

The _badjikan_ snorts, says, "See about that." He opens the door wide and steps to one side, letting the three Winchesters enter the house.

John gives the _badjikan_ a wide berth; the _badjikan_ notices and grins but doesn't say anything as the Winchesters head for the kitchen. Dean thinks that he's just seen the epitome of the difference between Rada and Petro because any of his Petro would've bared their teeth rather than just smile.

Sam takes his creation box from Dean's arms and sets it on the counter, letting out a deep breath and hanging his head, facing outwards toward the courtyard. Dean slides past his brother, watching John sit down at the kitchen table and lean back in the chair, turning thoughtful eyes on his sons.

"_Can you tell Sam that after what he's just gone through, he needs to rest for a while?_" Dean asks Ogou. "_Because christ, I didn't do anything except hold the box and I'm exhausted. I'll talk to dad._"

"_Your _pe," Ogou says, slowly. "_He know more already than I feel comf't'ble with. What you gonna tell him?_"

Dean sits down across from John, puts his elbows on the table and meets his father's gaze. A moment later, Sam thumps two beers, two glasses, and a bottle of Jim Beam onto the table and says, "I'm going to bed. Please don't wake me up unless, I dunno, a meteor's on the way or something."

John doesn't look away from Dean even as he tells Sam, "Get some sleep, Sam."

"_Trezò say to be careful,_," Ogou murmurs, as intently focused on John as John is on Dean. "_But he trust you_."

Dean looks away from his father at that, gives Sam a smile full of meaning: love, pride, devotion, gratitude. It sends a flush up Sam's cheeks, turns the skin under his eyebrows and at the top of his ears pink. Dean would laugh, seeing that, but he itches to kiss Sam, to pull him close and tug him up to bed, so he just blinks, slowly.

By the time Dean opens his eyes back up, Sam's footsteps are heading up the steps, the _badjikan_'s voice and tread following Sam.

John reaches, opens the bottle of bourbon and fills the tumblers Sam gave them almost to the top.

"Gonna be that kind of conversation, huh," Dean says. Still, he takes one of the glasses and throws back a good couple swallows, setting the tumbler back on the table with an audible thunk. Dean watches as John does the same, and when John puts his glass down, Dean asks, "So? What're you gonna yell at us for?"

"Us?" John asks. "Is there -- are you being ridden right now? How is that even possible?"

Dean takes a breath and gives his father a look that clearly means '_how sure are you that you want an answer to that question_?' When John just keeps a steady gaze on Dean, Dean sighs. "It's not normally possible. Actually, it's pretty rare. But because of what Sam is, it works. We haven't tested out how far I can go away from him before it's too far," and he adds, quickly, "I don't plan on testing it out, either," a clear warning.

John takes that in, asks, "Who?"

"Ogou," Dean says, even as the loa's pressing forward, looking out of Dean's eyes, speaking with Dean, the timbres of their voices twined together.

"A Petro face," John guesses. "And your brother?"

That pulls Dean up short. He has no idea how he's supposed to respond to that; Sam's a trinity, yeah, but he's also the _poto mitan_ \-- any of the loa can ride him and often do.

Ogou snorts, says, "_Tell 'im Danny-girl. It's what he 'xpects, anyway. Best to keep from mentioning the others just yet._"

"One of Erzulie's faces," Dean says, telling Ogou, "_He better not freak out about this too much_," at the same time. "Petro as well."

That has John raising an eyebrow in what Dean thinks is surprise. "Petro? Sam? The same Sam who wouldn't even let us kill cockroaches when he was younger?"

Dean shrugs one shoulder. "We all change, dad."

"Yeah," John says, and if the expression on his face is a smile, it's a very bitter smile, bitter and resigned. "Just how much have you and your brother changed, Dean? Hunters have been talking, y'know. Word gets around and no matter how much damage control I do, rumours spread."

"Is that why you came down here?" Dean asks, suddenly furious. "You here to kill us? What, you were just biding your time until we did something unforgivable so you can justify it? Tonight definitely gave you that, so what are you waiting for? Just do me a favour: let me get Sam down here; you can do it in the courtyard so the house doesn't have to be cleaned. Next time it rains, our blood'll just wash away."

Dean's standing, isn't sure when that happened, but he can feel Ogou writhing inside of him, desperate to be let out, to make sure John can't hurt them, to make sure Sam's all right. It takes more power and self-control than Dean's ever used before to hold Ogou back from killing his father; Dean actually has to draw on some of Sam's borrowed power to keep Ogou locked down.

"I'm not here to kill you, Dean, jesus," John says, and he downs the rest of the bourbon in his glass, refills it. "Christ, is that what you think? Dean, you're my -- you're my boys, _mine_. Like hell I'd be able to do that, to you _or_ Sam. Fuck."

Anger, sadness, possession, territoriality -- Sam was right when he said that all of the Winchesters would be Petro. Dean's halfway curious to know what loa would be interested in his father but he thinks it'd be Ogou, doesn't know how it wouldn't be, after everything John's been through, from war to marriage to fatherhood to hunter.

"_Ain't gotta worry_ cheval," Ogou murmurs. "_I ain't gonna ride your _pe_. Not my type. There's more to him than that. He ain't never made a choice to be a hunter. Soldier, yeah, and that might be enough, but that ain't what he is, down at the core. Naw, he ain't mine._"

It hits Dean square in the face. If it's not Ogou then it'd be Ti-Jean. Of course.

"So why _are_ you here?" Dean asks, calm enough now to sit back down, drink the rest of his own bourbon before sliding the tumbler over, letting John refill it for him.

"Like I said, hunters've been talking," John says, filling Dean's glass back up and pushing it back to Dean. "Rumours flying everywhere. I got a head's up from one of 'em I'm still on speaking terms with, said that a few were talking about coming down here, trying to wipe out as many of -- of your kind," and he barely stumbles over the words, "as they could while things were in flux. Something about maybe no one would put a whole bunch of deaths together in the wake of a hurricane as serial murder; they'd think it was the storm. I wasn't about to leave you and your brother alone to deal with that."

Dean's blood runs cold and Ogou lets out a howl, full of rage and murderous intent. For the first time ever, Dean can feel -- he can feel other loa, feel as they wake up, uncurl from their sleep to listen. It's Sam's power, has to be, and it rushes through Dean, just like all those other loa are, and nearly knocks him off the chair. They're not even talking but it's too loud, too many of them, too _much_, and he lifts one hand to his head, digs his nails into his temple and mentally yells out, "_Stop, stop, fucking -- you have to stop, _please."

A moment later, Dean feels a wash of cold ozone flood through his bones, through the house, through the entire city, he thinks, and it shuts up the loa, makes them freeze, every single one of them. His head -- his and Ogou's -- is blessedly silent again. If Dean wasn't using all of his energy to sit up straight, rubbing at the nail imprints on his skin, he'd cry in relief.

"_Is that -- does Sam --_," Dean asks Ogou, can't form the full sentence for the weight of the horror he feels, phantom pain in his skull, muscles shaking.

"_Not that bad all the time_," Ogou says. "_But it can be._"

It's a miracle Sam didn't go insane the first time the loa rode him.

There's movement above them, slow and steady as footsteps thump on the stairs; Dean's torn out of his thoughts to hear Sam's body being carried by Karrefour's gait. A handful of tense moments later, Sam turns the corner of the hall into the kitchen.

No, not Sam. It's Karrefour, and Karrefour's riding hard, judging by the spine-tingling electric scent seeping outwards from Sam. "_Mato_," Karrefour says, purring out the word though his eyes are chips of black ice, pinned on John. "Why's the _kochon_ making such a fuss?"

"Sam --" John says.

"Dad," Dean barks out, cutting his father off. John looks at Dean, shocked, but his face pales when Dean says, "That's not Sam." He pleads with his eyes for John to back off, to let Dean handle this, and he thinks his father must understand because John gives Dean one single nod and then apologises to Karrefour.

Karrefour grins, baring his teeth, and John blanches at the sight of Karrefour's blood-stained teeth. "Ain't no reason for you to 'pologise," Karrefour says. "You ain't one o' us, no way for you to know. Now, _mato_," he says, turning to Dean, the grin fading into Karrefour's normal intensity. "Tell me what has the _kochon_ raisin' such a fuss. An' tell him to calm down before I make 'im."

Ogou stops at that, right in the middle of another angry scream, and pants for control in Dean's skull. Dean can feel Ogou's struggle, especially when Dean wants nothing more than to let Ogou have free rein and track down these hunters before they can harm any of his people. He lends Ogou what support he can, gives Ogou the freedom to inhabit him, as close to riding him as he can without letting Ogou cross that line, until Ogou's breathing with him, blinking with him, throwing back more bourbon and swallowing with him.

"Good," Karrefour drawls, "but if I ain't gettin' answers soon --." He trails off, not needing to finish the threat.

"Dad brought word of hunters," Dean tells Karrefour. "They're planning on coming down here, maybe already have, and killing as many of us as they can."

Karrefour stands there, starts to nod, slowly. "Makes sense," the loa says, "but you know better than most, how hard we are to kill. Still, that ain't gonna happen, not here, not now."

"What're you gonna do, then?" Dean asks.

Karrefour lays thoughtful eyes on Dean, then on John, as the electric ozone smell of him starts to circle the room, a small whirlwind of power that sets Dean's clothes fluttering, pushes at the bottles and glasses on the table.

"Been awhile since we had hunters in this city," Karrefour says, slowly. "Even when you came down this way, you bypassed Orleans. No, it's been too long; they've forgotten not to tangle with us, not on our ground. S'your city, _mato_, and your _met tet_'s the hunter. What you two think?"

Dean and Ogou's instant reaction is the same: kill them. Any hunter that comes into New Orleans deserves death for their impudence. But that's the initial reaction and it's not a logical one; Dean wrestles enough control back from his instincts to realise that. It takes Ogou a little longer but Dean pulls the loa along with him, and the two share thoughts, ideas, for long, drawn-out minutes that see Karrefour standing still as ice and John waiting silently.

"We'll track them," Dean finally says. "We'll take a few others with us but we'll go after them, make sure they know not to come here again."

Karrefour tilts his head and smiles. "Predictable," he says. "Sad, how _sympathetic_ your bloody-minded _kochen_ can be when he uses a loose bridle. No, I have a better idea. There's an obvious solution to this an' it has a lot to do with those instincts you repressing." Karrefour narrows his eyes, the smile dropping, and he warns Dean, "No matter how much the _poto mitan_ wants you to keep your freedom, someday soon you gonna have to decide if you really are one o' us or not."

With a wave of his hand, the back door unlocks and opens, squeaking in the kitchen's oppressive silence. Dean frowns, not sure what's happening, but before he can even think to ask, Marinette's standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed right at Dean.

"Look at me, cousin," Karrefour orders. Marinette turns to Karrefour, eyes widening as she inhales deeply and sways on her feet. "You heard the _kochon_, came here even though the _poto mitan_ gave you your orders. So here's what you gotta know. Hunters're talking 'bout comin' down here, taking advantage of the storm's cover. If you see them, kill them."

"Sam," John says, standing up, "or whoever you are. You can't just -- just kill them. They're good men!"

Karrefour doesn't react to that, just keeps his eyes focused on Marinette. She gestures at her mouth and Karrefour sighs, flicks his fingers at her.

"Why should I do this?" Marinette asks.

Marinette and Karrefour study each other and they look so much alike that Dean would almost guess they were twins, rather than cousins. It's the furred-over purr of Karrefour's speech and the dismissive power Marinette holds herself with, the way that they've locked dark eyes and could almost be covered in blood and carrying weapons for all the menace they possess, separately and together.

"Tell me, cousin," she pushes. "Your horse locked me up until he had need of me, then placed me in a corpse and bound me to his will. Why should I do anything he wants, unless I'm commanded?"

Karrefour reaches out, ignores the snake around Marinette's neck to caress the curve of her cheek and jaw. "Locked you up to save his own life, cousin," he says, tone softer, more gentle, than Dean's ever heard from Karrefour before. "Locked you up even though you know it was the last thing he was wantin' to do. You pushed him to it, 'Nette, and you know it, gave 'im no choice. Always plannin', you and your clever mind. Well, you seen what the elders taught 'im. He locked you up, enacted the bone law, is makin' his way through our _sevityes_ and cleansin' out the troublemakers. And you gonna miss it all if you keep pissin' 'im off. Just think," and his voice drops, both in pitch and in volume, "you do this for him, he may let you roam free after this _dezod_ is done."

Dean instantly says, "No," and under the weight of both Karrefour and Marinette's gazes, he says it again, "No way, no chance in hell. We'd never trust you enough for that."

"See?" Marinette tells Karrefour. "My little horse of a hunter tells the truth more than you, cousin. There's no freedom in my future."

Karrefour steps closer to Marinette, leans down until they're sharing the same breath. Dean's frozen, can't do anything but watch as Karrefour fits his lips to Marinette's, kisses her slower and more tenderly than he's ever kissed Dean. His hands cup her cheeks, use his grasp to pull their bodies tight, and Dean can see the instant Marinette melts, giving in to Karrefour, one of her hands sliding up Karrefour's body and curving around his neck. She moans into his mouth, her other hand fixed on Karrefour's hip and holding him close.

"Then do this because you love me," Sam says, and it takes Dean a second to realise -- holy shit, it's Sam, not Karrefour, Sam kissing her, Sam standing so close to her, Sam at the mercy of her touch and her words. "The way that I still love you."

"You love him," Marinette says, and though she doesn't take her eyes from Sam, she juts her chin in Dean's direction. She sounds -- she sounds mournful, regretful. Dean never would have guessed it from her, not even with the look in her eyes earlier in Congo Square.

Sam smiles, a sad smile, and says, "I've never taken another _cher tet_, Mari. I never will."

"You swore that position to me," Marinette says. "But I would've thought --. Never, _mwen renmen anpil flanm_? What is he to you, then?"

Dean can only watch this happen. He wants to do something, wants to move to Sam's side, wants to tell Sam that this conversation is ridiculous, that Marinette has nothing to do with hunters invading their city and that he'll take care of it, that Sam should be sleeping. He can't. He can't do anything, and it's not Karrefour or Ti-Jean or any of the black magic Petro, isn't Ogou weighting down his feet so he can't move. It's the sheer tragedy of Sam and Marinette that he's only now starting to get the faintest glimpse of.

"He's my _solèy_," Sam says. "And you know my trinity, _mine_, not the one I shared with Sophie and Théo. But I'll always have that empty space. I'll always love you and want you and miss you. I know I can't have you, Mari, but prove to me that I can trust you. Please."

"You can still have me," Marinette murmurs. "Release the bindings, Sam, and I'll come back. I won't harm you, I'll swear it in front of _le gran met_, and we can be together again. Take me back, Sam, either in this vessel or the way it was before. Remember how good it was, how good _we_ were? It could be like that again. Give them up -- my sister, her husband, our cousin, your mate -- and take me back. I'll do whatever you want; I'll do anything for you, _mwen flanm_."

Dean holds his breath and a frisson of doubt shivers down his spine. The way she sounds. The way _Sam_ sounds, looks, as he stands there, eyes locked with Marinette's.

"You know I can't," Sam says. "We can't. It's too late for that. But do this for me and I'll take the bindings off. I won't put you back in your prison. Hunters, Mari, and they're coming for me, for our people."

The expression on Marinette's face has run the gamut from hope to anguish in just the last few seconds, but she pulls herself together and gives Sam a dismissive look, lip curled in disgust. "Your people, _poto mitan_," she spits out. "But fine. For the sake of my freedom, I'll do this for you. Just remember: your death belongs to me. I'll come for you again, Samuel Winchester, as many times as it takes, and no number of hunters or amount of bindings can stop me forever."

She snarls at Dean, narrows her eyes at John, then turns and disappears out of the door and into the courtyard's darkness.

Dean exhales, feels like it's the first time he's been able to do so since Karrefour opened the door to Marinette.

"What the _fuck_," John says, leaning back in his chair, heavily, as if his spine has given out.

Dean stares at Sam's back, at the clear line of tension in Sam's muscles, the slight trembling Dean can see all over Sam's body. It seems like he's fighting the urge to go after Marinette, and that just about kills Dean. He sits down, chugs bourbon straight from the bottle.

"Sam?" John asks. "What was that all about? I don't -- you can lie to me, I don't care, just tell me something."

"We won't have to worry about the hunters," Sam says, and he turns around, his expression blank but his eyes -- his eyes speak of a heartbreak so old and so fresh, at the same time. "Marinette's good at sniffing out things and people that don't belong. If hunters come to New Orleans, she'll take care of it. If you have any contacts that can get in touch with the hunters heading our way, you might want to think about calling them. Those hunters -- they won't have an easy time of it here."

Dean wants nothing more than to go to Sam, hold Sam tight, take him upstairs and lock the door behind them, keep Sam protected from the world. In front of their father, though, and with the doubt that's spiralled through him over the past few days, brought to a head by Marinette calling Sam her 'dear flame,' by the way Sam used affectionate nicknames for her, by the fact that Sam _kissed_ her, he only offers Sam the bottle of Jim Beam. Sam shakes his head and Dean sets the bottle back onto the table with a near-slam that makes Sam flinch.

John takes the bottle, refills his glass, and says, "That was the loa you bound earlier, Sam. Who the hell is she? And who the fuck was riding you? Dean said it's normally a Petro face of Erzulie, but --." He stops there, shakes his head as if he can't believe any of this is happening.

"Did Dean--," Sam starts to ask, then stops, looks at Dean and says something in Kreyòl.

It takes Dean a second to understand, even with the translation charm working, but he says, "No," and watches as Sam's shoulders slump a little.

"Before, back in Chicago," Sam says to John, "you said you didn't want to know. You've learnt far more, seen much more, than we'd let anyone who wasn't one of us or about to become one of us see. You have to have some ideas."

"I do," John admits, "but I'd like to hear it from you."

Sam takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. "I'm the _poto mitan_. I'm the leader of everything: the vodouisantes, the loa, the living law. And because of what I am and how much power I have, all the loa can ride me and often do. I am bound specifically to three riders: Erzulie Dantor, the Black Madonna; Ti-Jean Petro, the dwarf and father; and Karrefour, loa of the night crossroads. The loa I called forth and imprisoned in that corpse tonight is called Marinette Bwa-Chech, the dry-armed mother of blood and bondage."

Dean's never heard it put like that before. Oh, he knows what Sam is, knows it intimately, and he knows all of those names and descriptions, but something about how Sam said it, admitted his role and his riders, sends chills chasing goosebumps over Dean's skin.

"When you said you had influence," John says, shaking his head slowly, "I never imagined you meant you were in charge of everything. A _houngon_, maybe, or the head of a respected _hounfor_, but --. Jesus, Sam. How the hell did this happen?"

Sam tilts his head and there are echoes of Karrefour and Danny in the gesture, enough to settle Ogou from his watchfulness into a humming sort of waiting. "Again, you have some ideas, I'm sure."

"The demon," John says. "I heard some things, more than once, about the people it chose to visit, the children whose lives it touched. They all had some kind of psychic power. Is this yours?"

"Not at the beginning," Sam says. "But the loa found me and changed it enough to make me useless to the demon."

John snorts, says, "Useless to the demon but perfect for them. Is that what the crossroads demon meant earlier? She called you the boy king, said you were turned away from the demons, twisted. Sam."

"I was meant to be Azazel's heir," Sam says, bluntly. "The instant I was ridden by the loa the first time, that became impossible. The demons have left me alone, mostly, because I can't fulfill my original purpose."

"And because Karrefour is one of your riders," Dean guesses. His stomach roils at the thought; did Sam pick Karrefour as one of his trinity just to keep the demons away? Is Karrefour less of a fit for Sam and more of a safety measure, loa of the night crossroads, such close kin to demonkind that the demons don't bother with Sam anymore?

Ogou pokes at Dean, says, "_Like that loa would let hisself be used like that, _idyo_. Don't hurt, that's for sure, but you know how well they fit. You tangled with 'em, seen 'em in a way no one else ever has._"

"Karrefour being one of my trinity has helped," Sam admits. "But Ogou's right, that's not the only reason I bound myself to him." Sam looks at John, then, and asks, "Is there anything else you want to know?"

John opens his mouth, then closes it, a speculative look crossing his face as he glances between Sam and Dean a few times. Dean instantly pales, mind caught on a few things: 'you love him,' '_solèy_,' 'mate.' They've always been careful, him and Sam, to juggle what they are to each other with what they were born, lovers and brothers and only a handful know about both. That their father might call them on it -- and the reaction he may have -- dries Dean's throat and has him shifting in his chair, too panicked even to let Ogou calm him down.

"What are you?" John asks, instead, lifting his chin in Dean's direction. "Ever since I got here, people are kowtowing to you almost as much as Sam. If your brother's the leader of the voodoo community, what are you? Or is it just because you're," and he pauses, winces, says, "close?"

Dean swallows. He knows. Their father knows.

"_Knows and ain't sayin' nothing 'gainst it_," Ogou points out. "_Answer your _pe_'s question _."

Sam's the one who answers, instead, from the spot where he's leaning against the counter. Dean's not sure when Sam moved, put more distance between them than even Marinette's offer had.

"As a rule," Sam says, "when Ogou picks a favourite horse, that horse becomes the head of all Petro in New Orleans. Since New Orleans is the most important of all our territories in this country, that horse becomes the de facto head of all Petro in the country."

"Answering only to you," John guesses. When Sam nods, just once, John lets out a breath and looks at Dean. "Can't be easy, having to listen to your little brother like that."

Dean shrugs one shoulder, says, "We make it work."

John eyes Dean and asks, slowly, "How many people here know that you're brothers?"

Dean can't hold his father's gaze. It's probably the closest John will ever come to asking for confirmation that his sons are, in fact, fucking each other, and Dean's not sure how to respond.

"A handful," Sam says. "The ones we trust the most. Is that a problem?" he asks, mildly.

It takes John a few silent moments, stretched out and taut with tension, to answer, "No. But I --." John stops, shakes his head, finally says, "I take it that I'm Dean's father while I'm here? I don't think anyone has --"

"You're _our_ father," Sam says, cutting John off as he pushes himself from leaning against the counter to stand tall, feet planted on the ground and chin lifted. It's the defiant pose Sam perfected when he was five; it looks so much more self-assured, almost intimidating, now that Sam has height and weight and muscles to back it up. Dean's so distracted by that stance, by the expression on Sam's face, that it takes a second for him to hear what Sam's saying, _really_ hear. "I'm not ashamed of you or of Dean or that we're family. We just happen to be family in more than one way, which I think makes us lucky, more than anything."

Dean's heart bursts with love for Sam, so much that it drowns out the noise of Ogou, and he stands up, goes over to Sam without thinking, takes Sam's hand. Sam looks at him, small smile hinted at in the corners of his lips, and Sam twines their fingers together, physical touch that seems so much more, _is_ so much more.

"You're my boys," John says, and his father's voice startles Dean. Dean's not sure how long he and Sam have been staring at each other like lovestruck fools, and he looks at John almost apologetically -- almost, because he'll never be sorry for loving Sam the way he does. He squeezes Sam's hand one last time and then, reluctantly, lets Sam go, though he stands close, enough so that he can still feel Sam's heat and smell the traces of Danny's perfume clinging to Sam's skin. "You're my boys and that's the end of it. I'm not -- I don't -- no matter what. Okay?"

"Yes, sir," Dean says. Sam echoes him a moment later.

John leans back in his chair, rubs his eyes. "Think I might go to bed. It's been a long day. What're the plans for tomorrow? Or, later, I guess," he corrects himself, grimacing.

Dean looks to Sam; between the initial boat rescues, retrieving those damn Rada _konesans_, dealing with Marinette, and the worry about rebelling vodouisantes and possibly having hunters in their city, Dean's never sure what fresh level of hell each day will bring.

"No idea," Sam says. "Guess we'll find out when it happens."

"Sounds like a plan," John says. He stands up, stretching, and Dean listens as John's joints pop and creak. "Get some rest, boys."

\--

John leaves, heads to his room upstairs, and the kitchen is silent, up until Sam says, "Did he -- and then he --."

"Holy shit," Dean says, in complete agreement.

"I can't believe he just _accepted_ it," Sam goes on.

Dean elbows Sam, says, "Don't jinx it," then adds, "Sorry we woke you up earlier. I wanted to ask before I forget: I felt them. The loa. They all -- it was like they woke up and stretched, so many of them. Is it because I had to use your power to hold Ogou back?"

Sam takes a step back from Dean, enough for Dean to notice and hate, intently, though he pauses from saying anything or following Sam when he sees the look in Sam's eyes, bitter and resigned, so much like their father, like the Sam that Dean remembers meeting in San Francisco.

"No one's ever done what we have," Sam says. "When I planted my power in Plaquemines, that was one thing, but no one's ever stretched out a _poto mitan_'s power between two people. There's no telling what's going to happen, Dean. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Dean says, immediately. "I'm not. You know I'd do anything for -- it'll just take some time to get used to."

Sam gives Dean a smile, one of those smiles that only Dean gets, especially with the soft adoration in Sam's eyes, a look that warms Dean's blood and sends a flush to his cheeks. He'll never get used to having Sam, to being able to have Sam, to having Sam want him, _never_.

"You and me," Sam murmurs, and he leans forward, captures Dean's lips in a sweet, gentle kiss that goes a long way to reassuring Dean after the display Sam and Marinette put on earlier. "She was the best option," Sam says, following Dean's train of thought without any trouble. "But like I told her, Dean, my time with her is in the past. I've moved on. I've found my _solèy_."

Dean wishes there was a word, in any language, for what Sam is to him. He's never been one for words, though; he speaks in actions and he wants to take Sam upstairs, lay Sam down and worship him at the same time he's staking a claim, wants to remind Sam that Sam belongs to _him_ and that it's reciprocal, that Dean has always been Sam's, even before their mother died, since the first time Mary put Sam in his arms after coming home from the hospital and told Dean that Sam was his to protect and look after and love.

Instead of opening his mouth, Dean holds out one hand. Without hesitation, Sam takes it, and follows Dean up the steps to their bedroom.


	22. Friday, September 2, 2005 - Part Three

Dean's still in bed when both his and Sam's cell phones start ringing. The noise is unexpected; he hasn't been able to text or call anyone since Monday morning. He rolls over, picks up his phone from the nightstand, and raises both eyebrows when he sees that he's gotten a text from Rose.

"Rose?"

Dean jumps; he thought he'd been alone in bed, waking up by himself, but Sam's on the other side of the bed, _his_ side of the bed, and looking rumpled, staring at his phone through sleep-narrowed eyes, line of a pillow crease down one cheek and his hair stuck up every which way.

He leans over, can't help himself, and kisses Sam, morning breath and all. When he's done, had his fill of Sam's mouth for the moment, and pulls back, Sam blinks at him, only says, "Hi."

"Idyo," Ogou mutters.

Dean swats at the loa at the same time Sam says, "Hey, shut up. I'm not awake, gimme a break, here. I didn't even think the phones would be working yet. Is your text from Rose, too?"

"Yeah," Dean says.

_plz come get us_

Dean reads that four-word text once, then twice, before it finally hits. "Holy shit," he says. "We have to go."

"As fast as we can," Sam says, and it takes one more moment before they both spring out of bed and hurry to get dressed.

\--

They clatter down the steps not five minutes later and John's waiting for them, standing in the hallway with one hand behind him, no doubt on the gun he keeps tucked in the small of his back. "What is it?" he asks, voice gruff, eyes checking over both Sam and Dean for any visible sign of what might be going on. "Sounded like a herd of elephants coming down the stairs."

Dean bends, grabs Sam's boots and pushes them at Sam before picking up his own and shoving his feet into them, tying them haphazardly. "We have friends at the Superdome," Dean says. "They texted and asked us to pick them up."

"I'm coming with you," John says, no hesitation and with a tone of voice that means he's not going to accept any arguments.

"Good," Dean says. He looks up at Sam, glares at Sam until Sam closes his mouth. Sam doesn't look pleased but he does give in when Dean adds, "Hunters, Sam, and Bondye knows what else."

Sam sighs, rolls his eyes, and says, "Fine," though he's clearly not happy. "I'll text Rose back and let her know we're on the way. Meeting place?"

"You know the city better than I do," Dean admits, though that's going to change and soon. This is _his_ city and he wants to learn every inch of it, wants to and will definitely have the opportunity with as long as he's thinking they'll be here. "Besides, there'll be National Guard and cops all over the place, right? Do you know how bad the flooding is between here and there?"

"Fuck," Sam says. He rubs his forehead, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Didn't even think of that. Okay, hold on."

There's the faintest hint of ozone in the air; Dean sneezes but doesn't say anything, just finishes tying his boots and straightens up. Underneath the ozone, the stench of roses starts to flood outwards and the smell is strong enough that even John rubs his nose, asks, "What is that?"

"_'Zulie Freda_," Ogou murmurs. "Poto mitan_ checking in with your Rada counterpart, be my guess. Quickest way to get information without having no electricity._" Ogou pauses, thinks about saying something, finally kicks Dean in the base of his skull and says, "_You gonna ask me to help or not_, idyo?"

"_How could_ \--," Dean starts to say before he practically groans and bangs his head against the wall. "_Hunter, right. Sorry, yeah, go on, find out what you can._"

Ogou takes off in a rush and Dean looks at Sam again, makes sure Sam's not wavering on his feet. He sighs, meets his father's eyes. "He's talking to Colette," Dean says.

John gives Sam a look, rubs his nose again, then turns his attention back to Dean. "Since she's not here, I assume he's using -- something? The loa? Is that even possible?"

"Only for someone like him," Dean says, and figures it might not even be something that all _poto mitans_ can do, not with the way he's remembering all the power swirling around Sam in the desert. John doesn't need to know about that. "What I can tell, he forced Erzulie on Colette and is using Erzulie as a bridge. If Colette was already being ridden or had Erzulie with her the way I have Ogou, he wouldn't smell so strong."

"The smell," John says. "That's a sign of a strong -- whatever you'd call it?"

Dean snorts, says, "Bridling. And yeah, that's a sign. One of the biggest. But if it makes you feel any better, no one ever puts out a smell the way Sam does."

Before John can say anything to that, the stench of roses gets blown away in a storm of blood and ozone. John's eyes widen but Dean's narrow. Sam wouldn't need any of the Petro to get in touch with Colette, so this is something else, and the fact that Dean doesn't know what's happening makes his heart race. Before he can ask Ogou or take one step closer to Sam, Dean stumbles on his feet, getting yanked towards Sam with intent. At first he's not sure if Sam's doing it or Ogou, but then Ogou says, "_I'm trying to find _tifi_ and her girl, _idyo._ It ain't me._"

Sam's eyes are closed but he says, "Sorry," and reaches out, finishes pulling Dean to him until Dean's in reach. Sam puts his hand directly on Dean's wrist and grips tight. The bones in Dean's wrist pop. "Just -- hold on, _mwen solèy_," and Sam tugs power from Dean with enough force to have Dean wavering for balance. "I just need to take a little and then we'll -- just hold on, Dean."

Dean gets dizzy, the way he did in the house with the Rada corpses, and has to close his eyes to stay upright. He can hear John asking what's wrong, feel his dad grip his arm, and Dean leans into that, lets John help him keep his balance. Sam's pulling out power from Dean's gut, _his_ power, and the sheer ferocity of the grab-and-yank leaves Dean's senses reeling.

It doesn't last long, maybe fifteen, twenty seconds, and then, like a rubber band snapping back to relaxed, all tension gone, Dean staggers. Sam's done pulling power and the scent of blood and roses has completely cleared from the hall; Dean breathes in the clean smell of the house and breathes out the lightheadedness once, twice, three times.

He opens his eyes, sees the loa moving in Sam -- Petro, all of them, apart from Damballah and three that Ogou recognises immediately.

"_The twins_," Ogou says. "_The Marassa. And Ayida. _Guete."

"Sam?" Dean asks. Sam sighs. In the exhale of his breath, the curve of his chest blinks translucent, his flesh flashes to bone. "Someone -- the mirrors," Dean says. "Already?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "Apparently. _C'est des conneries_."

Dean flinches, Ogou does as well, which leaves John to ask, "Are we still heading out?"

Sam shakes off the drain on his power faster than Dean can, faster than Ogou can move past the fact that the bone law has been in effect for less than twenty four hours and someone has already challenged it to such an extent that they're facing death for their defiance. Jesus. "Yeah," he says, brings Dean back to Rose and Kate, away from the desert and his vicious curiosity to know if Doreen was the one to raise the first challenge. "Colette said that the National Guard's started evacuating people at the Superdome and the Convention Center to the Astrodome," Sam says. "Bet that's why Rose got in touch with us; she wouldn't want to be bussed all the way to Houston just to have to turn around and come back."

"Not much to come back to," Dean murmurs.

Sam winces but squares his shoulders. "She and Kate can stay here as long as they need to," he says, then adds, hurriedly, "If that's okay with you."

Taking a clue from Ogou, Dean elbows Sam and says, "Idiot."

"So what's the plan?" John asks.

Sam and Dean look at each other, take deep breaths in sync.

\--

The three Winchesters head toward Canal, Sam and Dean with their ever-present backpacks stuffed nearly to bursting with food and water. The flooding in most of the Quarter isn't bad, less than an inch closer to the river and only a little deeper further in. They've had to slosh through a foot of water, even two on occasion, to get to the Paginot house and they saw New Orleans East with their own eyes, but Sam still stops when they reach Canal and the edge of the Quarter.

"Bondye," he whispers. "_Le gran met_."

Hotel windows blown out, palm trees on their sides, streetcar tracks underwater -- it's not as bad as the Lower Ninth but it's hard for Dean to look at, especially when he glances up Canal and can only see I-10 sticking up out of the water.

"Lucky you live where you live," John says.

"Luck ain't got nothin' to do with it," Danny hisses, but then Sam shakes his head, says, "That's been our house practically since Bienville. We've thought about moving over the centuries but the loa said no, so." He shrugs, as if to say, '_What could we do?_'

Dean takes a deep breath and tries to inhale without breathing through his nose. The smell isn't as bad here as in NOE but it's still not pleasant and an extra couple days has added the stench of rotting meat to the air.

"Come on," Dean says, elbowing his brother. "We told Rose where to start heading; she's gonna be pissed at us if we're not there to meet her."

"Yeah," Sam says, though it takes a moment to tear his eyes away from the devastation and turn to face the river.

\--

They walk down Canal toward the river, Dean leading the way and Sam lagging, taking everything in, John bringing up the rear and keeping one hand on his gun. It's not that Dean's ignoring the signs of devastation all around them or choosing not to watch as people loot stores, he just knows that this is hitting Sam a hell of a lot harder and someone has to keep a steady head.

"_And you think your _tèt_ be steady enough to fill in_?" Ogou teases him. "_None o' mine ever get accused of being level-headed_."

"_Oh, shut up_," Dean tells the loa, teasing back with the added sense of rolling eyes.

Ogou swats at him and Dean tussles back, eventually turning right onto Magazine and waiting for Sam and John to catch up.

Dean meets Sam's eyes and if their father wasn't standing there, Dean would reach out, pull Sam close and kiss him, try to remind him that it isn't all _this_ bad, that the government will get the city drained and the vodouisantes will be here to rebuild. He'd put his hands on Sam's cheeks and press their hips together tight. He'd do whatever it takes to pull Sam away from the look on his face. He never likes it when Sam locks down and puts shutters over his eyes so Dean can't even see the loa moving. With John here, though, Dean doesn't know what to do and feels helpless meeting the dead expression on Sam's face.

"Hey," he says, soft. "We'll fix it, okay? We're doing good now and things can only get better."

"Can they?" Sam asks, just as quietly, but the question is cutting, dull and despondent. Dean nearly flinches but before he can say anything, Sam shakes his head and squares his shoulders. "Come on," he says, and Dean hears Danny in his voice like she's the only thing keeping him upright. "Like you said, we have to meet them."

This time it's Sam who leads, setting a brutal pace that's just short of a jog.

"_What the actual_ fuck," Dean says.

Ogou shrugs, sounds sad as he says, "_Ain't weakness to ask for help, _cheval."

Dean narrows his eyes, hears his father keeping pace behind him, and says, "_No shit, Sherlock. But that's not Sam asking for help. I've seen him like this before, heard him like this. It's never a good sign._"

"_Might not be a good sign_," Ogou replies, "_but it's what you gotta deal with for now. At least it ain't ol' Red-Eyes pushin' him on._"

Fair enough. Ge-Rouge would be worse.

\--

Before they left the house, Dean texted Rose back and told her to meet them at the Poydras/Magazine bus stop. Neither he nor Sam knew if they'd be able to get away from the Superdome, especially with so many of the refugees already bussed out, but Rose is cunning and Kate's got her own brand of persuasiveness.

The Winchesters get there first and Sam looks up Poydras, up to the Superdome and I-10. "Might take them longer to get through the water," he finally says. "And we left in a hurry. If they had to sneak out it might've taken time."

"Also," Dean points out, "Kate's only five foot tall. They can't get anywhere as fast as we can." Sam nods in acknowledgement, once. "_Any idea where they are_?" Dean asks Ogou. "_You were hunting them down earlier._"

"_Took me a while,_" Ogou admits. "Tifi's_ the only one I can track and with the blocks my _trezo_ has around her --._" Ogou clucks his tongue. "_She moving, gettin' close, that's 'bout all I can say._"

Dean's about to tell Sam that, that they probably just need to wait a few more minutes, but Sam's head turns down Magazine so fast it could've given him whiplash. "This way," he says, and this time he does take off at a jog.

With a look at his father, Dean sighs and goes after Sam.

\--

Sam turns down a pedestrian area between the federal building and the courthouse. By the time Dean catches up, he can see Rose and Kate come around the corner on Camp Street.

It's quiet enough that Dean can hear Rose's heartfelt "Oh, thank _fuck_," even as Kate and Sam are running to each other at breakneck speed. When they meet, Kate practically climbs Sam, sticks her face in his neck and holds onto him like she'll never let go.

"_Tifi_," Sam croons, one hand under her rear, the other on the back of her head. "Aw, my _tifi_, sshhh now, come on. We brought water and snacks and we'll take you back to the Quarter. You can get cleaned up; we have food and clothes and you can have any bed in the house."

"Like we'd ever fucking want the one you and Dean fuck in," she mutters back, words coming out between sniffles and sobs.

Dean snorts and only then realises that John's with them; he turns around and thankfully John's far enough away that he probably didn't hear that.

Probably.

Rose catches up to them and she looks exhausted, deep circles under her eyes. Her neck is straight, though, and she meets Dean's eyes head-on. "It's bad?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "It's bad."

"Fuck," she says, and then a moment later says, "Okay," as she squares her shoulders and determination floods her eyes.

In that moment, Dean can understand exactly how Sam grew so close to this woman, even apart from Kate's influence. It makes him want to take the two women home, feed them and put them in a bath and lock them in a bedroom to sleep off the horror. They have the food and the bedroom, thankfully. The bath will just have to wait.

Dean turns around, waves his father closer. When John makes it to Dean's side, Rose takes a step back, looking between them.

"Aw, shit," she says. "You brought your daddy down? Just when I thought you two couldn't lose any more of your damned minds."

"Came by myself," John says, and holds out his hand. "John Winchester."

She looks at John's hand, then at Dean, and Dean has to nod and give Rose an encouraging smile before she reluctantly holds her own hand out, takes John's. "Rosette Martin. People 'round here call me Rose. That's my girl Kate over there clinging onto the _po_ \-- onto Sam."

"You can say _poto mitan_," John tells her. "I know -- a lot more than I probably should."

Rose stares, then gives Dean a raised eyebrow. Dean winces and nods again, and Rose lets out a long whistle, says, "Well, _damn_. And he's still here."

Dean snorts. "Exactly what Ogou said."

John shifts on his feet as Rose looks him over, head to toe. Finally she rolls her eyes and says, "Come on, then. Take us home."

\--

Rose drinks three bottles of water on the way back and chews down granola bars and protein bars like she's never seen food before. Sam's giving Kate a piggy-back ride; she hadn't wanted to let go of him, clung to him like she was planning on staying there forever. She's a small thing but it's ten blocks back to the house and she's wearing Sam's backpack, still full of water and food and sunscreen. Sam doesn't say anything about it, though, doesn't even ask her to get down and walk when they're safe in the Quarter. He just carries her and keeps murmuring at her. What he's saying, Dean doesn't know; he and Rose and John are following them, about five paces behind, silent. Rose keeps looking around, taking it in, but the Quarter, especially closer to Decatur, survived mostly unscathed.

It's worse everywhere else.

"I wanna see my house," Rose eventually says, once they're crossing Royal on Conti. "I wanna see," her voice breaks a little, "if we should've stayed there all along."

There's a hitch in Sam's step and Kate clings tighter, face still in Sam's neck like she can't face the world. Neither of them say anything.

Dean looks over Rose's head, meets his father's eyes. There's nothing he wants to do less than ferry Rose out to the Lower Ninth. Dean and Sam haven't been helping with the rescues but their people have kept them up to date. They're still ferrying out survivors and now that the Coast Guard has come and instituted some semblance of order, they've been marking houses with spray-painted red 'x's when they're too late. There's nothing there for anyone, not now, not yet. He wants to tell Rose that but she juts her chin up.

"Stay with us for a while first," Dean says. "Rest, recover. We'll take you out in a few days."

"Today," Rose says, firmly. "This afternoon."

Dean sighs but he agrees. If nothing else, that'll put _some_ gloss on their Superdome experience. At least they aren't dead, floating in the water or drowned in an attic.

\--

When they walk inside the Dauphine house, the _badjikan_ is standing there, waiting for them. He clucks his tongue when he sees Rose and then realises where Kate is. "Oh, chile," he says. He reaches out a hand to stroke her hair or arm or jaw, Dean's not sure, but Kate shies away, pulling back, shifting as much as she can to hide on the other side of Sam's body. "This life ain't never been good t' you," he murmurs, then takes in Rose's jaw-clenched visage and adds, "Neither of you."

"We're just here to clean up a bit," Sam tells the _badjikan_. "Then we're heading over to the Ninth." 

The _badjikan_ flinches. "Why you gotta be doing that?" he asks, horrified. "You went out to get these girls and now you gonna take 'em to that? I thought you had more sense than that, _poto mitan_."

Rose steps forward, shoulders squared, and says, "It's my decision. My house. You ain't gonna stop me."

"Try and talk some sense into you if I wanna, Rosette Martin," the _badjikan_ says, edge of tart worry under the narrow-eyed chastisement. "Your mama ain't here to do it, someone's gotta." He softens, says, "Ain't nothin' left for you over there, baby girl. Ain't no reason for you to go back 'til you have to."

"Got reason enough," Rose says, lifting her chin. "My house, my stuff, my _life_. Dean said it's bad; I wanna see how much I gotta think about rebuilding."

The _badjikan_ softens, makes a 'tsk'ing noise. "Why go borrowing trouble from tomorrow, baby? It'll still be there. Go upstairs, get some rest, leave it until the water dries out." Rose's face turns white; the _badjikan_ immediately realises his error. Still, he must see the same stubbornness in Rose that Dean can't look away from. All the _badjikan_ says is, "We'll make sure you got some stuff waiting for you here when you get back. If you're that determined to go, might as well head out now."


	23. Friday, September 2, 2005 - Part Four

When Kate dropped out of Tulane, she moved to the Acadian parishes, sugarcane country. That's where she was living when Dean met her, in a one-bedroom apartment in Belle Rose, caught halfway between Thibodaux and Baton Rouge, halfway between New Orleans and Lafayette, like she didn't know where she belonged. When he and Sam came back to deal with Dennis, she was closer to the Quarter, sharing a house in Luling with a couple other girls and working on Bourbon, but sometime between then and now she moved in with Rose, into a house in the Lower Ninth where Rose has lived all her life.

Kate goes with them to see Rose's house, the waterlogged remnants of their lives mixing together in destruction the way that Rose and Kate were beginning to in life. It's more that she doesn't want to leave Sam's side, Dean guesses, but they'll be seeing the ruins of her life, too, caught in the flooded Ninth. It's Kate's face that Dean watches, getting peeks at her the few rare times she looks up from Sam. He can't even be upset that Kate's monopolising his brother; Dean would be doing the exact same fucking thing if she wasn't. Sharing the boat with Rose, having an idea of what they're taking her to find, it's more than enough -- he doesn't have to look at her to see the anguish on Rose's face that grows with every second they get closer to her house, the house that belonged to her mother and her mother before that, now destroyed. To watch Rose would be to see the memories she has of this place torn apart with every breath she takes. It's one more punch from Katrina and Dean doesn't even know what happened in the Superdome yet; neither Rose nor Kate have said a word about it since they started heading out this way.

\--

Dean's got a sinking feeling that Jonny's right. If this was the Garden District or Tulane, there'd be a change by now, maybe a few less feet of water, National Guard pulling people out of houses rotting slowly and surely down to the core, pallets of food and water being shipped in by the Red Cross. This is the Ninth, though, and the only thing that's changed since Tuesday is the smell.

\--

As they approach Rose's street, Sam reaches over, grips Rose's shoulder tight.

"We could go back," he says. "Wait until it drains."

Kate sobs, in short, sharp inhales and exhales.

"Made it this far," Rose says. Her voice is a thick layer of steel. Dean can't get a read on what's underneath: fury, sorrow, loss, all of the above. "'Sides, I got something I need to pick up."

He doesn't have the heart to tell her that everything in her house is probably gone, either looted or ruined.

He doesn't have the time, either; as soon as the boat pulls level with Rose's roof -- and holy shit, the water's up to her _roof_ \-- she's scrambling out of the boat, onto her house and away from them. She has an axe in her hand, one the badjikan gave to her as they were leaving, and she has it raised above her head by the time Dean's regained his wits enough to follow her, leaving Sam and Kate behind.

"Christ and the twins," Dean says, grabbing the axe and fighting Rose for it. "What the fuck are you -- Rose, give me the loa-damned axe!"

Rose fights back for a handful of seconds that feel like forever to Dean, struggling for a sharp, heavy weapon on a sloping roof above a miasma of death. She gives up, though, and suddenly enough that Dean nearly overbalances and falls over the edge, gives up and drops to her knees, starts clawing at the roof with her bare hands.

"It ain't gonna make a difference!" Rose screams, not at him, Dean thinks, but at the world, the government, Katrina. Fucking Katrina. "It's gone! Everything's gone and the house is made of wood; a hole in the roof ain't gonna make a spit of difference, Dean Winchester."

"Don't mean you gotta be the one to do it," Ogou says. He crouches, smell of pepper overwhelming the rot, puts one hand over Rose's. "I'll do it, or my _idyo_. You been strong, chile, for long enough. Ain't weakness to bend enough so as we can do this for you."

Rose breathes, slides her hands out from under Ogou's -- from under Dean's, and uses the back of her hands to wipe at her eyes. "I'm not one of you," she says. 

Dean gives her a smile, knows it's tinged with a sadness and anger all of his own that she'll understand every inch of. "You don't have to be one of us. You're one of _ours_."

\--

It doesn't take long to break into Rose's attic. There's a couple inches of water on the floor and with the only light coming from the hole in the roof and a pair of struggling flashlights, it's an eerie, dank space. Rose eyes the trapdoor leading down but doesn't move towards it.

Instead, she heads for a metal box on the top of a stack of other cardboard boxes, picks it up and clutches it to her chest.

"Okay," she says. "I'm -- let's go."

Dean raises an eyebrow, asks, "Anything else from up here?" With a hole in the attic, now, there's no guarantee that anything else will be salvageable, might not even be here at all by the next time Rose comes back. "Boat's not big but we have room for more."

Rose clenches her jaw, doesn't look to the left or right, just keeps her eyes focused on Dean. "Let's go," she says, again.

\--

Kate clings to Sam the whole way back to solid ground, keeps her face pressed tight against him. When they get back to the St. Claude Avenue bridge, Rose lets a couple of Dean's Petro help her out of the boat. Dean gets out next, gives a hand to help Sam, whose eyes are suspiciously clear of loa and emotion both. When he goes to help Kate, she keens, quietly, and doesn't move until Sam grabs her gently and gets her situated piggy-back on him. She buries her face in his neck, takes a short, tremulous breath that shakes as much as her body is.

None of the _vodouisantes_ say anything but they watch, eagle-eyed, as they make a path for the four to walk through, back towards the Marigny and home.

\--

By the time they cross Elysian Fields, Sam and Kate are nearly a block ahead, his long stride eating up the space while Dean's been modulating his pace to keep time with Rose. Kate hasn't looked up once and as much as Dean doesn't want to see what the city -- _his_ city -- has been reduced to, he thinks there's more to what's going on than meets the eye.

"Tifi _ain't acting like herself, got that right_," Ogou murmurs. "_I ain't the dwarf to know why, neither._"

"_Got any guesses_?" Dean asks.

There's a pause, long and drawn out, before Ogou says, "Poto mitan_ says her block broke. Says he's gonna put it back on her when y'all get back to the house_."

Motherfucking shit. Dean's never known one of Sam's spells to fail -- his own charm is still translating Kreyòl just as quickly and cleanly as it did the day Sam gave it to him -- and he doesn't want to know what kind of pressure it would take to shatter the shields Sam gave Kate. Whether it was age or not, having an empath's shields crack in a place like the Superdome during something like Katrina --.

"_Miracle she still livin'_," Ogou says, finishing Dean's train of thought. "_Think our girl here helped_?"

"Rose," Dean says. "Did Kate -- how long has she been like this?"

Ogou coils, says, "_Could wait to ask_, cheval."

Dean ignores the loa and Rose says, "Monday. When it hit. Kate, she -- jesus, Dean, I thought she was dyin'. She was screaming bloody murder, tried clawin' her own eyes out. Hasn't said much of anything since, just -- just seemed like all the life was sucked outta her. First time I saw any energy from her was when she locked eyes with Sam on Lafayette." She lowers her voice, even though Sam and Kate are well past Frenchmen and up to Touro, and says, "Thought she was gonna die in there, Dean. Thought whatever happened had driven her insane and she was gonna --."

Sam's power broke when the hurricane hit; Dean will never forget the driving force of the bindings being blown back to Sam, the way the power stole all the oxygen from the world and left Sam crying tears of blood. If Rose is right about the timing, then it's likely Sam's shields collapsed when his anchorings did, more than likely with that added detail of Kate going after her own eyes. All the pain of the anchorings being blown to shit and then four days in the Superdome, in New Orleans, on top of that -- no wonder she grabbed Sam the second she saw him and has barely let go since.

"I know what she is," Rose says. "And I know who helped her and how. Something happen to Sam?"

Dean glances at Rose, gives her an appreciative smile; it's -- nice is the wrong word but Dean can't think of anything else to describe what it feels like to have someone _normal_ around that can keep up with him, think on the same level, follow his leaps of logic. She sees him, his expression, and rolls her eyes, elbows him with enough force that he feels it.

"He'll get her shields back up when we get to the house," Dean says. He's avoiding the question and knows Rose knows exactly what he's doing. She doesn't press, though, doesn't call him on it.

"I shouldn't've let her come," Rose says. "Should've made her stay and get that taken care of first."

Dean can hear the self-reproach, takes the opportunity to elbow her back. "Fat chance of making her do anything she doesn't wanna," he says. "And if Sam thought it was that urgent, he would've forced the issue, sent us out with dad. Plus, if I know Sam, he's got some kind of temporary thing on her now he knows there's a problem. I'm just --"

"Don't you dare say you're sorry," Rose says, cutting Dean off. Ogou snorts, mutters something about attitude that Dean does his best to ignore. "You told me to get out; it was my choice to go where I did and drag Kate along with me."

"If I can't apologise, then you can't blame yourself," Dean says. "You had no way of knowing. None of us did."

Rose doesn't respond.

\--

John eyes all four of them carefully, head to toe, when they get back to the house. He'd wanted to go out to the Ninth, see what Sam and Dean have seen and are being haunted by, but Dean had argued that they're capable of keeping themselves safe, that the boat wouldn't hold all five of them, wordlessly told him that they needed the space for a moment, that there might be things Rose and Kate wouldn't feel comfortable talking about in front of John. Their dad hadn't argued but he'd been displeased; Dean's relieved that John's not doing more than ushering them upstairs to the more comfortable sitting room, getting them all Gatorade and protein bars, a few bars of chocolate as well.

Rose takes the mother-henning graciously, bites into some chocolate with more force than necessary, meets John's eyes fearlessly as she asks, "So why the hell did you think comin' down here was a good idea?"

Dean resists the urge to cover his face with his hands -- that or throttle Rose -- but only barely. He glances over at Sam, sees Sam smile back, and Dean almost returns the expression until his eyes drift to Kate, curled into Sam's side, clutching a bottle of Gatorade with both hands, knuckles white. He raises an eyebrow at Sam, asks Ogou, "_Thought Sam was gonna deal with her blocks as soon as we got back_," an implicit question and rebuke in the words.

"_Aie, _tifi," Ogou mutters. "_You know what the girl be like._"

"_Tell Sam to get her out of here_," Dean says. When the loa hesitates, starts murmuring words like '_poto mitan_, no-tellin'-him-nothin',' Dean says, "_Now, Ogou._"

Sam chest rises once, twice, before he turns to look at Dean. His eyes flash, full of loa, and the slight tang of blood wafts through the air. He pulls Kate closer, opens his mouth enough to bare his teeth. Dean narrows his eyes, lets his own teeth show, but then metal joins the blood, strong enough to have Kate relax in Sam's hold, give into the hug and let the tension in her hands, shoulders, fade away.

Ti-Jean. He's far enough away from the terror of Marinette to give Kate --not to mention Dean -- some reassurance. For now, that's going to have to be good enough.

"Never thought it was a good idea," John says. It makes Dean jump, makes him struggle to hide a smile, knowing that he and Sam -- and he and Ogou -- just had an entire conversation in a handful of seconds, fast enough that neither Rose nor John noticed. "But I knew m'boys needed me, so I came down."

"Think you just as stupid as them," Rose mutters.

John laughs, says, "Never said I was a smart man."

Dean thinks that maybe, just maybe, his father didn't have to.

\--

Sam and Kate leave a few minutes later, heading downstairs. Dean would've thought they'd be heading for the courtyard but they only go one floor down; judging by the footsteps and the creaking floorboards, they go into one of the bedrooms. He doesn't know what Sam had to do to set up the blocks in the first place but trusts that Sam would've asked if he needed help, so Dean has Ogou keep an ear out for any trouble and settles into the couch, lets his eyelids dip closed for a handful of seconds.

When he opens his eyes again, John's watching him; if it wasn't for the introduction of Kate as Rose's girl, if it wasn't for the fact that John knows -- _knows_ now, for sure -- about him and Sam, Dean thinks John would've made a comment about what's happening one floor beneath them, knowing there's only a small sitting room and bedrooms downstairs. John doesn't, though. He doesn't say a word.

Dean's used to his father's silence, the way John has of using long, unspoken moments to wear a person down, but Rose isn't. She breaks first, only four or five minutes in, and stands up, tilts her head towards the box on the table, the one she brought back from the Ninth.

"Any chance you got a way to open that?" Rose asks. "Key's in my jewellery box which is -- fuck knows. Maybe not even a thing anymore," and she gives a self-deprecating, depressed laugh that sends shivers up and down Dean's spine.

Sam's better with picking locks but this isn't anything fancy, so Dean says, "Lockpick set down in the kitchen," and stands up as well. He gives John a nod, one which John is slow to return, and Dean takes Rose down to the kitchen, both of them hesitating outside the room Sam and Kate are in, Kreyòl chants barely audible through the thick oak door.

Once they're in the kitchen, Rose sits down at the table and Dean grabs one of their kits from the drawer under the unplugged coffee pot. He has the lock popped in seconds but doesn't open the box; instead, he pushes the box towards Rose and puts the kit back in the drawer. When he turns around, Dean frowns.

"What are -- are they supposed to look like that?" he asks.

"Coconuts," Rose says, like that's some kind of answer. Dean looks closer and, yeah, they're coconuts, but painted over and covered in glitter and ribbons. She takes one out of the box, carefully traces the line of red going around the middle. "Zulu throws them every parade. Each krewe member only decorates -- oh, I dunno, a hundred? Two? It's a fucking big deal to get a Zulu coconut."

She hands Dean the coconut; he takes it gently, turns it over again and again in his palms. "A big fucking deal and you have a dozen?" he asks, glancing into the box, doing a quick estimate.

"Eleven," she says. "S'good to know people." She smiles, a tiny little thing, but it's the first honest smile that Dean's seen from her since they picked her and Kate up.

Dean gives Rose her coconut, squeezes her shoulder, leaves her in the kitchen and goes back upstairs.

\--

Sam's just coming out of the bedroom when Dean makes it to the second floor. He looks tired, drawn-thin and barely awake, but his stance is firm and planted solid, his hands free of tension when he reaches out and cups the curve of Dean's cheeks. He bends a little, presses his forehead to Dean's.

"Rose okay?" he asks, and the volume of his voice, the way the air from his mouth caresses Dean's lips, the two of them so close, leaves Dean with chills running down his spine. Somehow, the two of them, like this, is more intimate than having sex.

"Yeah," he says. His voice wants to shake, but doesn't. "Kate?"

Sam smiles, a hard-fought-for and earned-with-tears expression. "Yeah," he says, and tilts his chin just enough so that he's -- it's not a kiss, just a slide of mouth against mouth, and it makes Dean ache for something that he doesn't know how to ask for, much less name.

Dean kisses his brother back, a real kiss, a full kiss, lips and tongue and soul. When they're done, when they part, Dean's smiling and so is Sam.

"I left Dad alone," Dean says.

Sam chuckles, says, "I figured. Didn't hear him follow you downstairs."

Dean laughs as well. "For being so quiet on hunts, he's got one hell of a stomp here," he says. "Think we should go rescue him?"

"Would rather do other things," Sam says. Dean's breath catches in his throat; the look in Sam's eyes is dark, full of want. "But yeah, we should."

"He probably has questions," Dean says. "After last night, by now --."

Sam sighs. "Yeah," he says.

It takes a while for them to move.

\--

Dean walks into the sitting room first, Sam right on his heels. Dean sits on the couch but Sam goes over to one of the cabinets, pulls out a bottle of scotch Dean didn't know was there, along with three glasses. Sam pours, hands the drinks out, leaves the bottle on the table, still open. Sam sits down on the other end of the couch -- too far away for Dean's taste but they are with their father and it's better, probably, not to push what he and Sam are right in front of John.

As if John knows they're ready for an interrogation -- and he might, could've been eavesdropping on them although they didn't hear any creaking floor -- John says, "Last night," then corrects himself with a grimace, rubbing at his eyes. "This morning. You told the loa that someone is trying to kill you, someone other than the hunters. What's that all about?"

Dean looks at Sam just in time to see his brother let out a deep sigh and lean back into the cushions. "There have been -- concerns about me and my position since I was introduced to vodou," Sam says. He sounds fed up. After seeing Sam flash bone this morning, after first-hand confirmation that the Rite of Mirrors has already been triggered, Dean doesn't blame him for it one fucking iota. "One of the groups of our elders were convinced that no one with ties to a demon, much less a white kid from Kansas, could ever be their leader. They'd been breeding the bloodlines for generations, all the way back to Jeanne Toussaint. I was something of an anomaly."

If they were alone, Dean would let out a whistle at that. The group of elders, that has to be the _memeres_, but Dean's never heard about the breeding program before. He hasn't heard the name either, has no reference for when this 'Jeanne Toussaint' lived, but Sam made it sound like centuries, probably. All that time spent trying to capture the power that Sam had without even knowing it. No wonder the _memeres_ didn't want to recognise Sam's power.

"_Ain't something we go spreading 'round_," Ogou warns him.

Dean swats at the loa, focuses on Sam.

"With their blessing," Sam goes on, "and the acknowledgment of our cousins down in Haiti, I stepped into the leadership role in action as well as name. People didn't like the loa I was closest to and there were -- extenuating circumstances, say, so I banished her and chose another as my primary rider. That has never sat well with her devotees."

Their father is not a stupid man; Dean's not surprised when John says, "Marinette."

Sam nods. "When Dean came to get me and the rumours started spreading about what happened in Mississippi? That's when I imprisoned her. Ever since then, it's been one battle after another with the vodouisantes in this country. Some of them don't like that I bound myself to the Petro, some of them don't like that I'm enforcing the law, some of them don't like having someone else to answer to." Sam shrugs, adds with a wry smile, "And some of them just don't like me."

"There was a prophecy," Dean says into the silence. Sam jumps, just a little, and gives Dean a look that says Dean doesn't have to go into this, that he doesn't have to admit to being just as important as Sam. Dean just gives Sam a flat stare back, one that says he thinks Sam's an idiot, and Sam rolls his eyes but doesn't stop him from continuing. "That another person would come, help him, and that together they'd bring the law back, clear out all the rotten apples. So some of them are upset with me, too."

John looks between them, head tilted slightly to the right. If this were a cartoon, Dean would swear he'd be able to see smoke coming out of his father's ears with how hard John's thinking.

"You have to have a plan," John says. "Some way to deal with this." He stops there, shakes his head, and gives Sam a smile that seems full of pride. "Knowing you, there's more than one plan."

"Marinette's plan b," Sam admits. "She'll be able to ferret out the low-hanging fruit here in New Orleans without an issue. It's the higher-ups all over the country I'm worried about. They have influence and they could be teaching dissension among the ranks. When I got pulled into the desert this morning, that was -- well, it used to be the last resort but it's become plan a. Almost every single person with leadership responsibilities is undergoing a test right now, and the ones who aren't doing it now already have. It's not -- pleasant."

Dean expects more; evidently John does, too, because after a minute or two of waiting, John asks, "What will happen?"

Sam shrugs. "If they fail, they die," he says, as if it's that simple. To Dean it is, but John's shoulders give a little, releasing one type of tension, taking in another. "And if they live, they know what kind of power I have at my disposal and that I'm not afraid to use it."

"Some of 'em won't like that," John says.

"They'll either shape up and get in line," Sam says, "or they won't be a vodouisante anymore."

Dean elbows Ogou, asks, "_Is he talking about them dying in the desert, killing them himself, or just kicking them out_?"

The loa snorts, asks his own question in response. "_That matter_?"

Put that way, well, no, it doesn't.

"Is there a plan c?" John asks. "I mean, fine, you've got the leaders covered and you're cleaning house here in New Orleans, but what about everyone else?"

"It'll be dealt with," Sam says. He's got that look that means he's not about to say anything else; Dean wishes he knew if that look was directed specifically at their father, an outsider, or if everyone who isn't Sam would get that look.

"Poto mitan_'ll tell you_," Ogou murmurs. "_He ain't keepin' it a secret from us. If he don't fill you in, I will, and he knows it_."

John sips at his scotch, clearly considers everything Sam's said -- and everything he hasn't. "You'll be okay, though. You and your brother?" he asks. "Because Sam, if there's any doubt, any whatsoever, then I --."

Sam gives John a smile, a gentle one, one that Dean doesn't think Sam's directed at their father in years, if ever, and says, "No doubt. We'll be fine."

"And the city?" John asks. It looks like it kills him to ask, to wipe that smile off of Sam's face, to bring depression back into this space that just, for the briefest of moments, grew light enough to float.

"We're staying," Dean says. "Maybe just for a few months, maybe for a while. But I think -- this is our home, now. Or home base, anyway," and he knows that John, just like him, is thinking about the Impala, about everything she represents. "I can't see us leaving right away, and even then, not for months at a time. Maybe weeks, but --." He shrugs, leaves it there.

John nods like he expected that. "Well," he says. "As long as you need me, I'll stay, too. And -- it'll be okay for me drop in every once in a while?"

"Any time you want," Sam says. "I'm sorry that we won't be -- y'know." _On the road. Hunting. What you wanted from us. Normal_. There are so many ways Sam could end that sentence and by not choosing one, he just chose them all.

"No need to apologise," John says. "You're my boys. End of story."

Dean refills their glasses and the night cools around them as they sit, together, in the sitting room, and polish off the bottle.


	24. Monday, September 5, 2005 - Epilogue

When Dean opens his eyes, he's alone in bed. It's something he's gotten used to, no matter how many times he tells Sam to wake him up when Sam gets up.

"Trezò _say to be letting you sleep_, cheval," Ogou tells him, before Dean can yell at Ogou.

"Yeah, _cheval_," Dean mutters. "If you don't start listening to me, this horse is gonna kick you right off."

Ogou snorts, says, "_You'd miss me too much. 'Sides, you may be my _cheval_, but you outvoted by the _poto mitan_ and I ain't even gonna 'pologise for sayin' it_."

Dean rolls his eyes as he kicks the sheet off and stands up, stretching and feeling the joints in his knees and back pop. He shimmies into a pair of jeans, doesn't bother with a shirt before going downstairs, grabbing a cup of coffee and chugging it down. Dean refills his cup, gets one for Sam, and heads back upstairs, unerringly following the scent of Karrefour and Danny.

Sam's on the third floor balcony, wearing his rattiest pair of jeans and his worn-in, faded-out blue t-shirt. There's a sluggish breeze winding down Dauphine; it's enough to play with the ends of Sam's hair, not enough to do much about the humidity already weighing down the air.

"How long've you been up?" Dean asks, standing next to Sam and handing his brother a cup of coffee.

"Not long," Sam says. "Half an hour, maybe? Dad's still asleep."

Dean hums, lines up the side of his body with Sam's and presses close. He's not awake yet, not really, even with Ogou up and ready to get moving; it's nice to stand here with Sam, just the two of them in a quiet that he doesn't think will last very long. Sam moves to accommodate Dean, not much but a slanting down of his hip, a relaxation in his arms.

"I heard they're getting some power back in the CBD," Sam tells him. He blows on the coffee, takes a sip and winces at the heat. "Not much but a couple places."

"Heard?" Dean asks. "Colette?"

Sam shakes his head, says, "Emilie stopped by on her way to see the mayor. Things in the governor's office are a fucking mess and the mayor's been busy giving interviews and trying not to think about the -- he hasn't done too much to help."

"Power's good," Dean says. "Phones, internet, air-conditioning."

"_Light, too, _idyo cheval," Ogou points out.

Sam snorts. At Dean's look, Sam shrugs one shoulder, says, "_Espri yo renmen limyè_."

Dean lets his charm and Ogou translate that, not for the first time thinking that the amulet Sam so casually made for him back in the beginning has come in handy more than once. _The spirits love light._ With Ogou telling him the words, words that apparently come from a ritual that Sam's referencing even though Mathieu's _konesan_ didn't recognise it, Dean replies, "_Espri a se limyè li ye._" _The spirit is light_.

Sam turns his face just enough that Dean can see the smile growing on Sam's lips, the matching gleam in his eyes. Dean snorts, wraps an arm around Sam's waist and pulls him close. Sam gives in to it, goes one step further and tilts his head, rests his cheek on Dean's shoulder.

"Everything'll work out, right?" Sam asks, quietly, words twining in with the noise of hammering echoing from somewhere in the Quarter.

Dean could lie and say yes, could be perfectly honest and say that he has his doubts and they're only growing with every hour that passes, but instead he says, "We'll find a way."

Sam exhales and Dean feels more than sees Sam close his eyes. A moment later, there's a noise from inside, the _badjikan_ yelling for Sam, first, then Dean, then both of them.

"Back to work," Sam says, straightening back up, shoulders slumped. He takes a step towards the French doors and Dean turns as well, about to call out, but Sam stops, turns back and stretches out his hand in silent question.

Dean rolls his eyes, mutters, "Idiot," and takes Sam's hand, lets Sam drag him inside.


End file.
